


My Sunshine

by redteeth



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bisexuality, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Child Death, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Emotional Constipation, Escape, Evil Corporations, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Frottage, Genderplay, Guilt, Guns, Healing, Homophobia, Homosexuality, Human Experimentation, Imprisonment, Injury, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, Kink Negotiation, Lies, Love, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Misogyny, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Prostate Massage, Relationship Negotiation, Resurrection, Revenge, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts, Survival, Switching, Temporary Amnesia, Torture, Transformation, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-04-26 09:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 46
Words: 145,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14399112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redteeth/pseuds/redteeth
Summary: Waylon Park is held in Mount Massive for two weeks before the Walrider disaster.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really write fic, but I got into this pairing very late and couldn't find a whole lot that satisfied my particular wants, so I decided to try writing my own. I've been writing this for the past several months, and finally completed it, so I figured if I put off posting it any longer, I would never post it. I will try to post daily; it took me months to finish but I don't want it to take months to post. I hope there are still some active Outlast fans out there who will enjoy it.
> 
> Please feel free to point out any typos or awkward phrasing you find; I've done little to no editing on many parts of this so I'm sure I missed some things. If you have crit about the story, feel free to share it, but keep in mind it's done and I won't be changing anything big. 
> 
> I also tried to tag every terrible thing in this, but there are a whole lot, so please let me know if you come across something that should be tagged. 
> 
> I do not condone ANYTHING in this fic, except for finding ways to get better, and being happy with yourself.

He gets out.

It's bumpy, but the jeep clears the gate, and then he's careening down the tight winding road away from Mount Massive and all the horrible dead and living things within. He gets to the end and cuts left onto the two lane route that heads into town, thirty minutes away. A glance at the clock reveals it's early morning, 6am. No other cars on the road. He’s still shaking with the adrenaline, breathing hard.

He got out. That’s all that matters. For a little while.

He starts to crash about 5 minutes in, when he passes the little country gas station where he used to stop and buy bottled sweet tea and beer, the first week he started working for Murkoff, when they were actually letting him go home. The spot where Jeremy Blaire cut him (stabbed him, but he’s trying not to think about it, how long the knife was) is aching insistently, dark red blood still oozing onto his prison suit. His leg has started to swell, and he knows that the flesh around the puncture has started to go red and shiny and hot. Waylon knows basic first aid, not enough to fix himself, but enough to know that what he needs now is a hospital.

He slows the jeep and pulls off the road just as his head starts to spin, his head wobbling almost comically. With the engine off, it’s quiet, birds chirping in the high evergreens around the road. He cracks the window and breathes in that fresh green smell, letting his eyes fall shut, for a moment. It was one of his favorite things, he remembers. When they first moved to Leadville.

He’s struck by a wave of panic, starting in his head and rushing down his body to his gut, where it settles and squirms. His breathing stutters. Lisa. The boys. He struggles to remember the contents of the email printout he found inside, dropped and lost during one of his close scrapes with death. Murkoff told Lisa he was sick. But Lisa pushed back…

“Is she even alive?” he says into the quiet car, his voice cracked from misuse. From screaming.

He catches sight of himself in the rearview then. The last time he’d seen his own face was the morning he’d betrayed Murkoff, two weeks ago. They didn’t let the patients have mirrors in their cells, and he would have felt too sick from the drugs and the Engine to look if he’d had one. He’s startled by the man who looks back at him. No wonder the patients thought he was one of them.

His bleached hair has grown out at the roots in a dark stripe, and is thick and matted with blood and muck. His face is streaked with it, skin pale and tinged gray. His eyes are sunken and bloodshot, and there is bruising and dirty scraping down his forehead and cheek. There’s a blistering around it that reminds him of the scarring on the patients inside, and he smacks his hand onto the mirror, unable to see it anymore.

But not quite before he sees the reflection in his eyes that resembles the patients… no, the variants. That inhuman light that shines from the eyes of the men they put in the engine.

“Tapetum lucidum,” he mutters. A layer in the eye that reflects light… in animals with enhanced night vision. Not people. He remembers it from a nature documentary they’d played for the boys. People aren’t supposed to have eyes like that.

Waylon still sees it, the Engine, when he closes his eyes, when his vision blurs. Whatever terrible machine they built out of human flesh and suffering, he’s wired in. He’s one of them.

When he opens his eyes, he realizes he’s fainted. He slowly realizes he’s pissed himself. He sighs. The icing on the cake.

“Waylon Park,” he says, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to say it. He’s had so little time to really stop and think, inside, first the experiments, then making his way from place to place and near death to near death. He’s unused to contemplating, to planning.

“I have two sons. My wife’s name is Lisa. I’m a software engineer. I’m traumatized. I got out. I want to live.” He runs down a checklist of things that seem important. He pauses. “They’ll look for me. They did something to me. Something… lasting.”

Waylon assesses his body and tries to be rational over the panic that keeps surging inside him in waves. He needs a hospital. He won’t get to one on his own in his current state. He looks around the inside of the car.

“Water,” he says as he spots the half full bottle on the floor in the back seat. The last time he had water or food was…

He scoops it up and pops the cap. When it touches his lips he’s almost overwhelmed by the need to gulp it fast, but he forces himself to drink slowly. The water is stale, like it’d been left in the sun, but it wets his mouth and throat, and he feels like crying for the pure simple ecstasy of it.

He studies the interior of the car with a slightly clearer head. There are some snacks in the back and more half empty bottles of water. Fast food containers on the floor. He checks the glove compartment and above the sun visors. The registration has the name of the reporter he contacted on it.

The sick feeling squirms in his gut again. The man he emailed, he was there. He’s probably dead. If he wasn’t, Waylon took his car… He shakes himself. He can’t let himself feel guilty. Not yet.

He eats a granola bar and tries to remember how to think. There are raisins in it that explode with sweet flavor in his mouth. He doesn’t even like raisins. Having food in his stomach, meager as it was, eases an ache he wasn’t even aware of.

He tosses the wrapper with the rest of the trash on the floor, and puts both hands on the steering wheel. The wet fabric between his legs is getting cold and uncomfortable, clinging to his skin. He breathes in and out slowly. In the distance, he hears a helicopter, getting nearer.

He starts the car again and turns back toward the gas station. They have a pay phone.

He parks as close as he can and digs quarters out of the cupholder in the car, then limps over to the old phone on the side of the building. He’s not even sure if the sensation in his leg is pain anymore, he’s so used to it. The station is still closed, opening at 7 when there’s more traffic, the morning commute to Mount Massive. He watches the sky for the helicopter, plugs in a quarter and freezes for a moment when the number doesn’t just come to him like it always does, like it should. When he recalls it, his fingers are trembling as he punches it in.

“This number has been disconnected.”


	2. Chapter 2

The sound and all the implications behind it are a punch to the gut, and Waylon slides down to a crouch with the phone still in hand, nearly unable to breathe as the panic attack twists through his body. He tries to tell himself there are other possibilities, maybe there’s some kind of communications blackout, maybe Lisa caught on and they ran, maybe she just had to change her number, maybe, maybe, maybe.

It does little to settle him as he hangs up the phone to end the call, and lifts it again, hands slippery with sweat.

He tries the next number on a whim, because he’s not sure who else to call. It comes to him more easily, even though it’s less familiar, his usually sharp memory finally kicking back in.

There’s a click on the end of the line, then, “Yeah?”

“Ethan,” he breathes into the phone, and almost falls apart right there.

Ethan had been Waylon’s roommate for two years at Berkeley, during which he’d talked at great length about increasing wage gaps, corporate America, and the worldwide government plan to nurture climate change just enough to solve the issue of overpopulation. He was likeable but intense, and despite his tendency to go off on wild rants, he was smart. He worked contract in cybersecurity and lectured Waylon for an hour when he’d first landed the Murkoff job. He’d been the first man Waylon had talked to when he’d started thinking about blowing the whistle on Murkoff, skyping him the second to last time Waylon had been home. Ethan had given him the reporter’s contacts. Then Waylon had chickened out, until his last long shift at Murkoff, when he’d been on site for three nights and they had kept coming up with excuses to keep him there, until he cracked and sent the email, and they stopped bothering with excuses.

If anyone could help him now, it was Ethan.

“Waylon? Jesus, where the fuck have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for weeks! What number is this, where are you calling from?” His friend’s voice is tinny through the old receiver, but it’s good and familiar.

“I’m uh… I’m at a payphone, outside of Mount Massive.” Waylon’s voice still sounds wrong in his own ears.

“You’re out? Lisa said they’d committed you, that you were sick. That was all bullshit right? It happened right after I gave you Upshur’s contacts, it was too much of a coincidence.” He pauses. “Are you… Did they let you out, or…”

The whole ugly story of it threatens to tumble out right then. Waylon bites his tongue.

“There was an accident. Things got… bad. For everyone. I ran.” He pauses. “I have recordings, I need to get them out, I need to show everyone what they were doing there-” He chokes for a second, the memory vast and indescribably heavy. “I need to go home and get Lisa, but I don’t think I’ll get there.”

There’s a shuffle on the line. “No, Waylon, that’s the first place they’ll look, and don’t tell me any more, they probably tapped this line, since it’s so close… We need to meet up, you need to drive to-”

“I need medical help, Ethan. I’ve already passed out once, I’m losing blood.”

Ethan fumbles on the end of the line. “Shit. I-”

“Can you come here? I can… I’m going to try to get to a hospital, but I-”

“Waylon, I’m in Sacramento, that’s like, a 20 hour drive-”

Waylon’s mouth works but words don’t come right away. “Ethan, you don’t understand the gravity of what’s happening here. All that shit you said about, about corporations, exploiting people for monetary gains, getting away with MURDER, this is IT.”

His friend is quiet on the end of the line. “Waylon, I can’t just pick up and drive to Colorado. Michelle’s pregnant, I have to-” There’s a shuffle. “Look, I can give you a number, it’s a guy I know in Nevada-” He rattles off the digits before Waylon can stop him.

“I won’t make it,” Waylon says, his voice strangled. His eyes are hot, and that panic is crawling up his body again.

“Look, uh, get to a hospital, outside of town if you can, give them a fake name. Call this guy when you can, maybe he can come get you. If they’re still dealing with their… situation, they might be distracted long enough, you might be able to avoid them. Look, I have to go-”

“Ethan-”

“If it’s that bad, I can’t be involved, Waylon,” his friend’s voice is trembling through the line. Fear, he supposes, or emotion over his own impotence in the face of the thing he claimed he would fight. “Call the guy, I can’t guarantee, but I… Just… Don’t call me here again. I’m sorry, Waylon.”

The line goes dead.

Waylon hangs up the phone. His mind is numb, quiet. His body, which had been sore and heavy when he dragged it out of the car, somehow feels light, like nothing. He limps toward the car and blacks out before he reaches it.

He comes to looking at the treeline behind the station, hearing the birds and the wind. His body feels almost pleasantly heavy, like waking up from a deep sleep. There is gravel grit pressing into his cheek. A scrape on one of his hands throbs.

Waylon thought he’d escaped. He was supposed to be OUT, things were supposed to be different. But it’s not over. He just wants it to be over.

He knows he should try the police next. He should go back to the phone and call 911 and trust the system. But he remembers one time in his first week when Blaire had come through Mount Massive with Leadville’s chief of police, giving him a tour. No, there’s a good chance he can’t trust the police. He can’t trust anyone.

He needs to get to Lisa. He needs to make sure they’re safe, and then he’ll worry about everything else.

He pushes himself up off the ground, and it’s easier than he thought it would be. He wobbles to the side of the station, finds a fist-sized stone in the grass, and then back to the front. In the full length glass windows, he sees himself. He was always a slim man, and shorter than average, with a narrow long neck, fine-boned masculine limbs, and a small pouty mouth that Lisa loved to trace with her small fingers when they kissed. The reflection he sees now is even skinnier, almost gangly, barefoot in his patient jumpsuit, his eyes dark in the dim reflection. He wonders if his wife is even going to recognize him. He hefts the stone and puts it through the glass door, right through his own face. He knocks out the rest of the glass with the handle of a broom the owner left out, and gingerly steps through. His feet are so numb from running that he doesn’t think he’d even feel it if he cut them.

There’s no alarm. Small towns. They’re so trusting.

Inside, he picks up a basket. He waves and mouths an exaggerated “Sorry,” to the little black bulb of the security camera over the register. Then he picks up water, crackers, and some energy shots. In the back aisle he finds tissues, a couple small rolls of bandages, ibuprofen, and miraculously, isopropyl alcohol. He also grabs a little box of maxi pads, in case the bandages aren’t enough. He finds the tech aisle and picks up several memory cards that look like they’ll match his camera; the memory sizes are woefully small, but he can’t have more than a few hours of footage to copy, and he hopes they’ll fit. On the way out, he takes several sandwiches from the cooler near the register, and a bottle of sweet tea, because why not.

According to the car clock, it’s been about 45 minutes since he left Mount Massive. His skin crawls with how close to it he still is. He thinks of the thing that he saw on the front steps, the swarm in the shape of a man. The owner of the station will arrive any moment, so he puts the basket on the passenger seat beside the camera and pulls out onto the road again.

He drinks an energy shot and another bottle of water and drives about halfway into town before he pulls over into a clearing and pops the door. He can see glimmers of bright water through the trees, the lake catching the morning sunlight. He pours some of the alcohol on his hands and scrubs them, but it does little for the staining on his nails and knuckles. Then he unzips his jumpsuit and looks down his pale chest at the stab wound in his abdomen.

He’s surprised to find it no longer bleeding, stoppered by thick black scabbing. He uses the tissues and alcohol to clean around it, and it’s smaller than he thought. He thinks he should break the scab and try to clean it out, but with how deep it is he knows he’ll never be able to stop infection with rubbing alcohol. He should be grateful for now that it’s stopped bleeding. He puts a pad over it anyway and wraps an ace bandage around his middle to keep it in place.

Next, he wipes his face, checking himself in the side mirror. It’s a harder task, and stings like hell. The blisters along the scabbing are open and everything seems to be oozing clear liquid. His lips feel cold, and he can’t seem to keep them from trembling. His face doesn’t look much better when he’s done with it, but at least it’s somewhat disinfected.

He upends most of a bottle over his leg, which is as bad as he suspected. He wonders if they’ll cut it off, if he ever does end up getting proper medical care. He presses the edges of the puncture gently and almost screams from the flare of pain that shoots up his calf. He’s letting out involuntary sobs by the time he finishes wiping away the grime and wrapping it with a second bandage.

Finally, he pulls up his video files on the camera, and plugs a memory card into the second slot to begin copying. He needs to spread the footage he has over two cards, but they copy quickly, and then he has three extra sets of files. It’s just past 7 am.

He drinks more water and eats half a sandwich despite having no appetite for it, and then pulls back onto the road. He passes what he’s sure is the station owner’s car on the way.

In town, he becomes self conscious. Even through his car windows he knows he must look like some kind of lunatic or serial killer, with his blood spattered jumpsuit and ugly face. There are cars on the road now, and he’s not sure if he’s getting strange looks from everyone he passes, or just unable to stop imagining them.

He pulls into his drive as close to the house as he can manage. It had come with the job, a cookie cutter suburban house, no outer character, nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the street. Lisa’s car isn’t out front, but it could be in the garage.

He takes the the camera and handfull of memory cards with him and hobbles to the front door. He punches in his key code (the one he always uses, the day he met Lisa) and the lock pops, and swings open.

It’s been almost three weeks since he’s been in this house last. Waylon had a sharp memory in the past, before Murkoff committed him and started crawling around in his head. But he still remembers with clarity how he and Lisa had decorated this room, turned the sofa and pushed back the table to make room on the floor for the boys to play, how they had swapped the paintings of flowers and barns that came with the house with Lisa’s Star Trek posters, how the boys lined the mantel with plastic farm animals, to keep watch.

The room’s empty now. Even the carpet’s pulled up. The walls are a different color.

Waylon wants to stop existing, in that moment. He thinks it then, and he’ll keep thinking it. He wants to just stop, and not know, and avoid everything after.

But he can’t stop himself from moving, like it’s all predestined, inevitable.

He walks through the hallway, footsteps sharp and resonant without the carpet, and upstairs. His and Lisa’s bedroom, the boys’ room. It’s all the same story, stripped bare. He keeps having to remind himself to breathe. His body movies on autopilot. He limps back downstairs, and through the empty dining room.

On the counter in the kitchen is a camcorder, identical to the one in Waylon’s hand.

Waylon wants to scream. He’d break something, if there was anything left in the house to break. His whole body is tight and hot and he’s trembling with it. He moves to the counter, sets down his camera, and opens the screen on the second one. There’s one file in the memory, about seven minutes long.

Waylon blacks out again about two thirds of the way into watching his wife and children die in the living room of their cookie cutter house.


	3. Chapter 3

The faint turns into a legitimate sleep. When Waylon opens his eyes again, it’s been about two hours. He finds this out later, because when he first wakes up, he just lies there, and hopes the soldiers find him, or the police. He feels physically better, having slept, but then the guilt comes, and he feels worse.  
  
He should have been there. He should have been with them. Murkoff could have given him that, at least. Not this… mockery, left for him to find, when they let him out, before they killed him. The time stamp reveals they were executed about a week into his imprisonment, so, about a week before he got out. What did they do with the bodies? Maybe there was some bigger plan for this recording, but with the asylum burning, Blaire shredded to pieces by the Walrider, he’s not sure he’ll ever know what it was.  
  
When he runs his hands over his face, it’s hot and wet with tears. He doesn’t even really feel like he’s been crying, despite his body still convulsing with the aftershocks of it. How does any person live through a thing like this? He doesn’t want to. He shouldn’t have to. He wants to die.  
  
But first... Waylon Park wants to hurt a whole lot of people.  
  
He hangs onto that thought for awhile, repeating it to himself to drown out anything else. Any thoughts of making it to a hospital are out the window. He doesn’t care. The only thing left is getting that recording into the hands of someone who can do something about it after he’s dead.  
  
He drags himself up to the counter, and copies the video onto the memory cards with the rest of his footage. Then he turns his own camera toward himself, and hits record, one last time.  
  
“My name is Waylon Park. I was a software consultant at Mount Massive Asylum in Leadville, Colorado, working for Murkoff Psychiatric Systems. I discovered they were doing unethical testing on patients, and when I tried to expose them, I was imprisoned and used as a test subject.” He pauses for breath. He feels shy and raw with the camera pointed at him, unable to keep his eyes on it.  
  
“The footage on these cards is what I recorded the night I escaped. There was some sort of accident, and all hell broke loose. The men you see on these tapes, they were all test subjects. Murkoff made them what they are. They… made me... whatever I am.”  
  
“I’m recording this video about, uh, a few hours after I got out. I made it home and found the video of my… Of L-” His voice cracks and he sobs, putting his head in his hands. He takes a minute to recover himself, and then stares wide eyed and broken into the camera lense. “They killed my family. For trying to expose them. And so I… I have nothing left to lose. I haven’t decided who to send these to yet, but if you are watching this, if you… if you consider yourself human, if you have anything resembling a soul, don’t ignore it. Don’t let it go. Turn their actions out into the light and make sure they can’t get away with this ever again.”  
  
He wavers for a moment, not sure if it’s enough, but finally hits the stop button. It’ll have to be enough. He can’t talk anymore.  
  
He copies the last file onto the memory cards. This is also when he realizes it’s just after 10am, the jeep is parked conspicuously outside of a house that Murkoff thinks is empty, and eventually they will get Mount Massive under control and realize he made it out. He wonders why the police haven’t tracked him from the gas station yet. Maybe they’re up at the Asylum too, the smoke from the fire calling them up.  
  
He can’t leave the house fast enough.  
  
A quick dig through the trunk turns up a messenger bag with files and a laptop, a duffel bag of recording equipment, an extra jacket, and a set of heavily used gym clothes. They smell worse than he does, and that’s saying a lot.  
  
The search also turns up a dusty survival kit with matches and quick-start blocks. He stares at them for a long time.  
  
Not wanting to return to the house, he crawls into the back seat and wriggles out of his clothes and into the new ones. When he first kicks down the jumpsuit, he looks down his naked, bruised body. His nipples are dark on his hairless chest, his ribcage just starting to define itself under his pale skin. His belly is still soft and slightly rounded (all the late nights and bad food while working on Murkoff’s software had done him no favors) and his dick is small in the cold September air.  
  
It’s a little different, but it’s his body, the body he’s looked down at a thousand times.  
  
Except this time, he shudders violently, taken instantly right back to the last moment he’d been stripped bare, legs splayed, that gloved hand on his inner thigh.  
  
 _“Such… beautiful bone structure…”_  
  
“No, no,” he coughs, bracing his arms on the seats and locking his knees together out of reflex, eyes pinched tightly shut. “He’s dead. He’s dead. You’re out. You got out.”  
  
He visualizes that heavy body, lanced and dripping from the ceiling. How still and quiet everything was. It still takes him a long time to calm down.  
  
After, it’s a struggle between his wounds and the garbage on the floor, but at last, he’s out of his grimy, piss and blood-spattered jumpsuit and into Mile’s Upshur’s stinky sweatpants and tank top.  
  
He feels discomfort when he pulls on the sneakers, knowing it’s probably because his feet are shredded from running, but he’s started to notice all of the pain in his body has dulled to something tolerable. It’s probably not a good sign, but he can’t help but be grateful for it.  
  
He lies in the back seat for a long moment when he’s done. He knows his window is closing, he’s most likely been spotted by a neighbor by this point, and in the light of day, faced with a full police force and whatever special operatives Murkoff has at their disposal, Mount Massive Asylum can’t be as insurmountable as it had seemed last night. But he has an idea and he knows he can’t leave without seeing it through.  
  
He uses the duffel from the back seat and scoops as much of the paper trash from the floor of the car into it as he can, including the bloody patient jumpsuit, then grabs the firestarters and matches from the back, and carries all of it to the kitchen. He opens the window to pull in more oxygen, then sets the fire on the floor by the wooden cabinet doors.  
  
He doesn’t stay to make sure it catches properly. Though he would like it all to burn to ash, common sense tells him it’s not really all that important if it does or not.  
  
He zips up the jacket and drives to the local post office.  
  
He slips into the building and tries to keep his head low, picking up the envelopes and moving off to the side where the single employee behind the counter can’t see him without leaning out. There’s not quite enough cash in the reporter’s belongings to send everything overnight. In the end, he addresses one to a trustworthy professor he had at Berkeley, and sends that one express. The woman behind the counter gives him a fearful long look, but he smiles and says he was in an accident, and she’s embarrassed enough by her own reaction to help him politely through it. He’s not sure the envelope will make it into the system but he can only hope for the best. He doesn’t know how else to get it to someone he can trust.  
  
Back in the car, he labels the second one simply “Police - Urgent”, and then drives northwest through the mountains until he hits the town of Glenwood Springs. He drops it in the first postbox he sees.  
  
The last set, he addresses to Ethan, because fuck Ethan. He drives another hour and a half to Grand Junction, where he circles main street until he finds their post office. He sends it with the cheapest option, knowing it’ll take weeks, even though they’re only two states apart, but he needs to portion the last of his cash, and he’s hoping it won’t matter anyway. There are more people out now and even more strange looks, but by now, Waylon feels so distant, so apart, that he barely notices.  
  
It’s about 5pm when he’s done, and the sky is starting to turn red. The jeep’s tank is nearly empty, and he’s eaten all of his food, suddenly ravenous. He’s considering using his last handful of cash to take a bus to Nevada, track down the man Ethan mentioned, and handing over his original recordings.  
  
If he’d been thinking at all about his own survival, he would have wondered how he could even keep going at that point. Punctures in the gut and leg, blood loss, exhaustion, on top of whatever Murkoff had done to him, the combination should have laid him out hours ago. But he’s barely even aching anymore, senses sharp as he pulls the car into the parking lot at the Greyhound station. He’s singleminded in his intention, packing the cameras and files into the small messenger bag along with the laptop. He doesn’t even notice that he’s stopped limping.  
  
He can smell wood burning when he opens the door. A woman walks her dog on the street nearby in the fading light as Waylon strides into the station.  
  
He buys a ticket to Salt Lake City, figuring he’ll call up Ethan again for the Nevada man’s address, and hope his friend doesn’t hang up on him. He naps in the terminal, making himself a small shape with his feet tucked up on the seat, and tries very very hard not to think about his kids. Later when he boards the bus, smelling of plastic and industrial cleaner and exhaust, he sits in the back and naps in his seat, trying very, very, very hard not to think about Lisa.  
  


  
They get him halfway through Utah.  
  
He’s never completely sure whether it was a police task force or Murkoff’s paid men. He figures later that it’s all about the same in the end.  
  
He’s asleep in the bus seat until he’s not, the Greyhound lurching roughly as the driver pulls it to a stop on the highway, headlights of a blockade bright through the windshield. He has only moments to push his bag away from him under the seat, as far back as it can go, before the darkly dressed armed men have swarmed onto the bus and are blinding him with lights fixed to the ends of their huge automatic weapons. They’re yelling at him to stay still, and a woman on the bus is screaming, and he’s gone still from the shock and fear of it, heart stuttering, like he’s still in the Asylum, still running.  
  
He’s raised his hands placatingly as one of the men drags him from his seat, thick black glove fisted in the collar of his jacket, and plants his skinny body facedown on the bus floor, knee in his back. His hands are zip tied behind him. The driver has started yelling now, something about police, but then there’s a pinprick in his thigh and his hearing goes dull and his body limp. The men lift him and drag him off into the dark. There’s a short burst of gunfire over a loud sound he suddenly realizes is a helicopter. His last thought as he is bundled inside is that they’re going to find the bag, or destroy it.  
  
The drug-induced blackout is immense and dark. He’s asleep for six days.  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

When he wakes up, he’s in a hospital bed, an IV needle taped into the pale flesh inside his elbow. He’s clean and properly bandaged, though he still feels like shit, the drugs doing little so far for whatever infections have been trailing him out of Mount Massive. For long minutes he doesn’t even remember what’s happened. He wonders if he’s been in an accident. But then he thinks “I hope they called Lisa” and it all comes back. His heart rate rockets, and the blurred broad shape of a nurse in purple scrubs comes in and pushes more drugs into the IV, and he’s out again.

The next time he wakes up, there’s a woman sitting in the room with him, and the same nurse in blue scrubs standing near the IV with a glass of water and an elbow straw. The woman looks older than Waylon, maybe 45, and is wearing a well fitted dark suit and trousers, her hair short and black with a dusting of silver. Her makeup is meticulous and tasteful. She’s examining a file folder, presumably his medical charts. She smiles and stands when she sees he’s opened his eyes.

“Waylon Park? Glad to see you’re awake.” She has a pleasant, yet restrained voice. A professional, using a speaking voice, he realizes.

He grunts in reply, head still fuzzy as he tries to consolidate the past with the present. The nurse holds the straw to his chapped lips, and Waylon lets it in and sips, not remembering quite enough yet to feel contrary.

She pats his leg through the thin hospital blankets. “That’s okay, you don’t have to push yourself. You’ll get better more quickly if you take it easy.”

She nods almost imperceptibly to the nurse, and with an inscrutable glance back at Waylon, he exits the room. She closes the door behind him, and reseats herself at the bedside.

“Mr. Park, my name’s Dr. Mina Clark. I’m medical director here at Blue Garden Psychiatric Hospital-”

The panic attack comes on before he realizes it’s happening. His heart begins to race, chest tight, and there’s a high whine and white noise in his ears. He comes out of it with Dr. Clark’s hand on his carotid, speaking in a quiet voice.

“Waylon, you’re alright. You’re safe. You’re alright. Just breathe. That’s it.” She pauses a moment. “You back with me, Waylon?”

He shudders through a nod, sweat cold on his skin as her well manicured hand pulls away. “W-where-”

“Blue Garden is in eastern Oregon,” she answers, sitting back down and reopening the folder. “You’ve been committed here by law enforcement, so I can’t give you specifics yet. But I want you to know you are completely safe here. We’re going to take care of you.”

His voice cracks as he struggles out, “M-Murkoff… My camera…”

Dr. Clark looks at him contemplatively. “I know you’ve experienced some very serious and very real trauma, Mr. Park. I’ve seen the footage of what you’ve experienced in Mount Massive Asylum, and… what was done to your family. You’re most like suffering from a panic disorder and will experience PTSD, if you haven’t started to already. We’re prepared to treat you both physically and mentally until you’re well again.”

She looks down at the folder. “You’re healing very well, physically. Almost remarkably well, all things considered. You had infections in your leg and on your face when you arrived; they were slow to respond to the antibiotics at first, but suddenly became extremely responsive after you’d had some rest, and they’re nearly completely clear. The wound in your leg reached the bone and caused some fracturing, but once we’re sure the swelling will stay down we’ll put you in a temporary cast. Might ache a little in the future but nothing to be concerned about. The wound in your abdomen was the most remarkable, no infection, no damage to the interior organs...”

She continues to recount his excellent physical recovery, but Waylon slowly drifts back into his own head. None of it is what he wants to hear. He didn’t want to wake up, not in a world where his kids and wife no longer exist.

“Now, the bad news,” she interrupts his thoughts. “We’ve been having some difficulty diagnosing your eyes. Are you experiencing blurred vision, or any other defects?”

He looks around the small, sterile room; it’s sharp and clear. “No…”

“Hm,” she says, studying the file. “Well, there are appear to be some malformations, possibly due to some exposure at Mount Massive, but if it’s not interfering with your vision, we don’t want to operate unless it’s necessary. So we’ll continue to monitor it…”

Tapetum lucidum, he thinks, trembling.

“The other thing is… well, we’re not entirely sure what to make of it.” She flips through the pages. “While you were asleep we’ve put you through some x-rays and two MRI scans to check for internal damage. We’ve noticed some… ‘clouding’, for lack of a better term.”

Waylon furrows his brow. “Clouding?”

“Some interference in the picture. We haven’t seen anything like it before. It seems to move around between one picture and the next, and doesn’t seem confined to the limits of your body. Our best guess is… something similar to radiation exposure, though every test we’ve done for it has come up negative.” She chuckles. “We kept you in a bubble for your first couple days just to be safe, so I assure you, if it was anything to worry about, you wouldn’t be out here.”

Waylon thinks about the human cloud on the front steps of Mount Massive. Nanomachines. There’s a good chance they were all over the facility, clinging to everything, and everyone. He doesn’t share this. She’s started to talk about physical therapy, medications.

“Who do you work for?” he asks.

Dr. Clark pauses, her friendly face fading. She shifts in her seat. Waylon’s throat constricts.

“Mr. Park… What Jeremy Blaire did to you and your family was completely without authorization from the board, the company as a whole condemns him and the Mount Massive operation-”

“Murkoff,” he stutters, eyes widening, skin paling.

“Blue Garden is a subsidiary, we have our own staff, our own rules. But… yes, we are part of the Murkoff Corporation,” she admits, as if it’s not really any big deal at all.

Waylon’s body starts to tremble under the thin hospital blanket. They got him again. They have him. The packages he sent would have reached someone by now. Did any of them make it? Did people know?

“Waylon,” she continues, her voice soothing. “I assure you we will be doing everything in our power to make up for the vile and unethical treatment you received under Blaire. We know there is nothing that will ever make it right-”

“You want something in return,” he realizes. “Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of tests and treatments, just to make it right?” He sits up higher in bed despite his body’s protests, trying to look her square in the eyes, and furiously spits, “Murkoff wants to buy my silence? What if I’m not for sale? You’ll put me on the street to waste away? Or just make me disappear?”

Dr. Clark sighs. “Waylon… We’ve already made you disappear.”

His body goes cold.

She grimaces. “Sorry, that was a poor choice of phrase. Murkoff has to protect itself. Many people depend on the company and its success, you see. We… hope we’ll be able to work together with you. We want to understand what was done to you.”

“You won’t take responsibility for the abuse, but you’re happy to reap the rewards,” he replies bitterly, deflating against the hard mattress. He feels wrung out, exhausted.

“You weren’t the only one who made it out of Mount Massive. We rescued many of the other patients as well. I’ve never seen so much horror in my life, Waylon. If we better understand what was done, we’ll better know how to help them.”

She leans forward and tentatively puts her hand on the bed, an earnestness in her face. “That’s why you contacted the reporter, isn’t it? You wanted to help those men. This is what I want too. I hope you’ll begin to believe me, eventually.”

Waylon looks at her sidelong, disdainfully, disgust curling his lip. “Murkoff’s only goal is to profit. If you really believe you’re only here to help people, then you’re more naive than I was.”

Dr. Clark smiles again. “I’m going to do my best to change your opinion of me, Waylon Park.” She pats his bed one more time, then stands and leaves. The nurse comes back in to check his vitals again, and Waylon catches a glimpse of an armed guard beside the door to his room.

He falls easily into an uneasy sleep, thoughts echoing the practiced tone of Dr. Clark’s voice.


	5. Chapter 5

The next time he wakes up, his leg is in a cast, and he’s alone in his room. He supposes they realized they can’t keep drugging him to sleep if they want him to heal, and help them do… whatever it is they want him for.  
  
He shifts and stretches his body, knowing there’s a good chance he’s been asleep for several days, judging by the stiffness. He sits up gingerly and assesses his body: the IV is still in his arm, and there’s a catheter in his penis that pinches painfully as he sits up. Less painkillers, he thinks, grimacing. Maybe it’s a punishment.  
  
He looks at the room properly for the first time. It’s small, no windows. The bed he’s in looks too big for it, Dr. Clark’s chair is squeezed into the tight space between the bed and the wall. There’s a narrow fold down bed beside the small toilet stall on the opposite side of the room. The walls are gray, or maybe light blue, it’s hard to tell. They have him in a white gown with blue polka dots.  
  
He plays over the conversation with Dr. Clark again. She didn’t mention the packages he sent. This could mean they already picked them up, and it just wasn’t something she knew about, or was concerned with. Or maybe they were still in transit, still unreleased. She seemed to think their secret was still safe.  
  
If he’s still in their custody and the recordings DO come out, he doesn’t really want to imagine what they’ll do to him. Maybe they’ll brainwash him and put him on a street somewhere, try to prove he’s just some nut who fabricated the whole thing with CGI to extort money from them. Or maybe they’ll just fucking kill him.  
  
Waylon doesn’t really care either way. He’s still alive in a world without his boys. Nothing means much.  
  
“You know that’s not what I would have wanted,” the voice comes as a shock, soft in the cold room. Goosebumps crawl up the flesh of his neck and arms. He closes his eyes to the empty chair at his bedside, the empty cot in the corner, the room that contains only him.  
  
“You know what I would have told you,” Lisa’s voice says into his ear, her breath cold.  
  
He pulls in a shaky breath, then lets it out slowly, fending off the panic attack. He doesn’t want a nurse to come, doesn’t want them in here, with the memory of her.  
  
Lisa had always had a way with him: he would so often work himself up sick over something he thought was a catastrophe, and then she would come in and say something easy, and suddenly the problem was the simplest thing in the world. He was second generation, half white, thoroughly westernized and spoke only english, whereas she had come over from South Korea on a student visa and still struggled with the language. When they first met at orientation, his second year and her first, she had spoken to him in korean, and he had felt ridiculous and embarrassed when he admitted he didn’t speak it. She had just smiled, and said, “Then we can both learn.”  
  
They were practically inseparable ever since.  
  
When he opens his eyes, she looks like she did the last morning he left, her thick dark hair braided back, wearing her oversized NASA tshirt and yoga pants, holding his thermos out to him as he makes his way to the door. He can hear the boys shouting upstairs as they get ready for school.  
  
“They want me to stay late,” he hears himself say, somewhere in the past. “I’m sorry I can’t help you with them-”  
  
“I would have wanted you to keep going,” she says.  
  
Waylon’s hand trembles around the warm thermos. It wasn’t even a month ago. Not even a month has passed. “Maybe I could watch them the whole day Saturday and you can go out and do something fun? Or just relax. I could take them hiking.”  
  
She smiles wider. “You did what you knew was right. You were so brave. I would be proud of that.”  
  
There are tears streaming down his face. He hoists his bag over his shoulder and grins at her from the bottom step. How is he supposed to last months? Years? Every moment, one moment farther away from this. “I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”  
  
Clutching the doorframe, she says, “Humanity will never reach the stars if we aren’t brave enough to do the right thing. The children of our generation could be living on Mars, the next could be traveling to other galaxies, other worlds. But not if people with power are still exploiting, hurting, and killing people without it.” Then she steps back inside, and closes the door.  
  
He opens his eyes. His heartbeat is steady on the monitor behind him, his breathing heavy, but controlled.  
  
“Okay” he says. “For you.”  
  
  
  
A new nurse comes in a short while later, friendly but terse. She pulls the catheter out of his dick, and swaps out his IV bag. She asks if he feels up to eating something, and he thinks of Lisa, and he nods.  
  
They bring him a plastic plate with meatloaf and overcooked carrots, and a side of applesauce, foods that will be easy on his stomach, the nurse explains. The meatloaf isn’t half bad for hospital food. He wonders if the facility is used to wealthier patients.  
  
He asks, but the nurse won’t let him watch television or get online. She does bring him some books and older magazines from the waiting room downstairs. He asks for a pen, to do some of the word puzzles. She leans into the hall and speaks in a low murmur to the guard outside, and then tells him, “Maybe later.”  
  
A few hours into reading a book on the history of milk, he decides to try to pee on his own. He knows he’ll probably end up on the floor, after spending so many days in bed, but he can’t bring himself to ping the nurse for a bedpan. He gets his feet on the floor first, making sure his IV stand can roll free of the bed, then tests his legs. His knees wobble with fatigue, but astonishingly, he stays up. He unclips himself from the heart monitor and makes it halfway across the room using the IV stand as a crutch before the guard peeks in, one hand on his sidearm.  
  
“Bathroom,” he says. The guard gives him a grim look, then leans on the door frame, watching. Waylon rolls his eyes and limps the rest of the way to the toilet stall, doing his best to keep his weight off the cast. His piss adventure is successful, and when he opens the door, the nurse is back in the room, arms crossed.  
  
“Mr. Park,” she says after he’s resettled in bed. “Just ping me next time. I’ll bring you a real crutch, and no one gets nervous.”  
  
“Why would anyone get nervous about me using the toilet?” he asks incredulously.  
  
She throws a glance at the door. “We’re a psychiatric facility. Some of our patients can be… dangerous.”  
  
Waylon snorts. “I’m not dangerous.”  
  
She smiles tightly. “And once Dr. Clark confirms that, you’ll be able to go wherever you need to.”  
  
  
  
Waylon later discovers the first nurse he met, whose name is Daniel, has night shift, whereas Carla has day shift. Dr. Clark visits patients in the evenings after visiting hours. So far, he hasn’t heard visitors come anywhere near his room, only the quiet, nervous talk of doctors and nurses passing back and forth.  
  
Daniel frees him from the patches on his chest and gives him a finger clip monitor instead, while Dr. Clark happily proclaims that he seems out of the woods. “Carla told me you took a little walk on your own today. Maybe we can even see about getting you a wheelchair and taking a little stroll tomorrow, if you’re up for it? Get some sun?”  
  
He frowns, wiggling his finger. “I think I’d like to take a shower before anything else.”  
  
She chuckles, marking something in her chart. “Well, that might take another few weeks, until we can get those stitches out and that cast off. I know the sponge baths aren’t thrilling, but it’ll be for the best in the end.”  
  
He studies her in the bright fluorescent light. Today she’s in a dark purple button down with the sleeves rolled, casual trousers, comfortable shoes. All business, no bullshit. “How many other patients did they save from Mount Massive?”  
  
She looks at him thoughtfully, waggling her pen. After a moment, she nods her head at Daniel, who slips out of the room. He doesn’t glance back this time, but he does step quickly away from the bed. Like he’s nervous about being close to Waylon.  
  
Dr. Clark rests a hip against the foot bar on his bed and sighs. “Cooperation for cooperation?”  
  
Waylon gives her a flat stare. “Or, it doesn’t matter how much you share with me, because Murkoff’s probably going to kill me anyways.”  
  
“I prefer my version,” she sighs. She pauses for a long moment. “What few records survived the fire tell us that there were about 400 patients living in Mount Massive before the riots. Murkoff rescued about 30. Most came here, but a few went to specialist facilities elsewhere in the country. If there’s anyone specific you want to know about, I can look them up, but it’s unlikely they made it out.”  
  
Waylon shakes his head. “Are any of them going to get better? Like, really better.”  
  
She’s quiet for a long time. “Most of them started out sick. They spent significantly more time enduring Blaire’s trials than you. And most of them are going to spend the rest of their lives with deformations and scarring that are much worse than yours. There are some hopeful cases, but…” She shrugs.  
  
He huffs in frustration. “Why is Murkoff keeping us alive?”  
  
She’s still waggling the pen in her hand. A nervous tic, perhaps. “There are variations from patient to patient, but they’re all affected in some way or other by the experiment. Some of these effects are intriguing, some are potentially incredibly dangerous.”  
  
“Human weapons,” Waylon sneers.  
  
She doesn’t deny it. “Murkoff has no intention of developing those concepts any further. However, there are good things that could come out of it. Your excellent healing, for example, could be a side effect of the experiments. Imagine if we could apply that to medicine! “ She spreads her hands, enthused. “We have patients with increased intelligence, insight, strength, agility. Patients who seems to be able to do… almost supernatural things. They paid terrible prices for their gifts, but they are gifts.”  
  
He snorts. “Patients who turn into smoke and tear people apart? Patients who are strong enough to lift a grown man in one hand and skewer him with the other? Patients clever enough to hunt, kill, and eat other men-”  
  
“Waylon,” she says sharply.  
  
“THAT’s what Murkoff made, Doctor. Accept it.” He pulls up his blanket and rolls to face the wall. “Not miracles. Monsters.”  
  
She sighs. “They’re just sick people, Waylon.”  
  
“Then why is the nurse afraid of me?”  
  
She doesn’t have an answer for him. After a few moments, she sighs again, and moves to the door. “Consider my offer about that walk, tomorrow, okay? I’d like to show you around.” She pauses for a long moment. “Have a good rest, Mr. Park.”  
  
   
  
That night is the first night Waylon starts to dream again.  
  
Ever since Mount Massive, he’s either been blacked out, sleeping poorly, or drugged into unconsciousness. It’s the first night he’s had a relatively regular night of sleep.  
  
The dream starts with Lisa.  
  
She’s naked and radiant, like an angel made of white fire, and she’s holding his bruised, thin, pale body against hers, and she’s like liquid steel. She kisses him, and his body lights up, glows. She touches him, running her hands down his chest and over his narrow hips, and then dips her hand between his thighs... and runs it up...  
  
The hand does not feel like her hand, warm and slim fingered. It’s leather palmed and cold finger tipped, and it grips too roughly. The light of his wife’s body goes out, and a cold shadow replaces it. The thick, rough fingers push up hard against his perineum, like Lisa liked to, and he orgasms, just as the shadow leans over and whispers…  
  
 _“Darling…”_  
   
  
  
He wakes up screaming, Daniel holding him down as two other nurses try to pull straps over his body. He’s kicking and fighting them, and Daniel has an obvious bruise forming on his cheek. Embarrassingly, Waylon realizes he has a softening erection, and cooling semen on his belly. It’s all kinds of fucked up.  
  
He forces himself to breathe, and then hold himself still. “I’m awake, I’m awake,” he repeats, even as they strap his legs down to the bed. “I’m sorry. It was a nightmare, I’m sorry.” He starts to shake, and even though he knows he shouldn’t be vulnerable, not in this place, he starts to cry.  
  
It had felt so real. And it had felt… _good_.  
  
Daniel pulls away from him carefully after his chest is strapped, though his hands are still free. The nurse’s hands are shaking. “You’re okay. I should be apologizing. We just…” he glances at the other nurses, who are also shaken. “We never heard a sound like that before. The sound you made.”  He steps away. “We can leave your hands free, but please leave the other straps on, in case you…”  
  
Waylon nods, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, too tired to argue about it. “It’s alright, I understand.”  
  
“We can give you something to help you sleep?”  
  
Waylon looks at the shivering man by the bed, dressed in purple again. He’s broad and tall, not bad to look at. The type of guy that Lisa might have picked for him, when they were still playing that sort of game, before the boys came.  
  
“If it makes you more comfortable,” Waylon sighs.  
  
Daniel looks like he wants to protest, professionalism urging him to assure Waylon that no, it’s for Waylon’s comfort, but in the end he just quietly pushes the drugs. Waylon doesn’t dream again that night.

 

In the morning, Waylon eats oatmeal and orange juice, and spends some time getting reacquainted with the toilet. In Mount Massive they had fed the patients liquid diets, and little came out of them but that, and by the time he escaped Waylon was lucky if he could muster a piss every couple days. Waylon had never had any particular affection for the mechanizations of his gut but he had to admit, it was really nice to just take a regular shit.  
  
A nurse he doesn’t know comes in awhile after and sponges him down. It’s the first time he’s awake for it, and it’s as humiliating as he imagined.  
  
Carla returns to pick up his tray and asks him if he’s decided whether he’d like to go out today. He sighs, because he would like it, but he doesn’t want to talk to the doctor anymore.  
  
He needs to know the layout of the facility if he’s ever going to get out, though, and so he finally agrees.  
  
Today Dr. Clark is wearing a white coat, unzipped over her dark clothes. She looks more exhausted than usual. Waylon wonders if they’re not well equipped to take so many patients at once, let alone Mount Massive _variants_. She also brings the nurse who gave him his bath earlier, pushing a wheelchair, and Carla, who unhooks him from the machines and IV, finally pulling the needle from his arm.  
  
“I’m glad you decided to come out.” Dr. Clark says. “This will be good for you, you’ll see.”  
  
“Doctor knows best,” he quips sarcastically as he pushes himself out of the bed. She smiles.  
  
When he finally escapes the small room for the first time in almost three weeks, it’s with an entourage: him, Dr. Clark, the nurse pushing the chair, and the armed guard from his door, trailing a few feet behind. He feels silly and small in the chair, but he doesn’t protest.  
  
They emerge in a long hall that dead ends at a frosted window, pouring in light with no outside view. There are several more rooms lining the halls, most standing empty, but a few shut up tight, guards standing outside. He notices the doors have locks on the outside.  
  
They reach a main room with a reception desk and waiting area, a few vending machines against the far wall, and a few other branching hallways. They push him up to the elevator and he sees the facility map on the wall. He’s on the 4th floor, in the medical wing. Dr. Clark hits the down button.  
  
“On the first floor is our courtyard and garden,” she says. “I want to show you through our psychiatric floors first, since that’s where we’ll be moving you when you’re physically well and able to start your therapy.”  
  
He learns that floor 3 is residential, for long term patients, with larger rooms and windows that aren’t opaque. He can see evergreen treetops and gray sky through them, but not much else. Floor 2 is a common area and more rooms for treatment. There’s a 5th floor on the maps, but it’s not labeled. Not an area patients are supposed to go, he assumes.  
  
He sees the first variant in his room on floor 3. The man is wearing clean clothing, a light gown over hospital pants, tied in the back, sitting in a chair in one of the small rooms, looking at a picture book. His bald, scarred head is cocked, as if he’s unable to process what he’s seeing. He turns to watch them pass, wide green eyes staring at them from the dark scar tissue across his face.  
  
In the light, he looks more like a wounded man than a monster. But Waylon still shudders as they pass, eyes on the man’s rigid body posture, as if he’s prepared to pounce.  
  
There are many more variants.  
  
Floor 2’s common area is wealthy with them. Dr. Clark said they had no more than 30, but it seems like so much more than that, when they’re together in one room. Scarred and mangled flesh in crisp light uniforms. There are a few he recognizes, a man he thinks he saw curled up naked in a toilet stall, the big man who silently followed him through one of the wards, muttering. He recognizes the man with multiple personalities who corralled him into the lower floors of the vocational block. His hands are shaking.  
  
“I assure you we having everything under control,” Dr. Clark assures him, picking up on his distress. “We transferred all of our regular patients to a sister facility upstate, so we can put all of our energy full time into helping these people.”  
  
Waylon tries to keep his voice low. “If you’ve seen my footage then you’ve seen what they’re capable of. To me it looks more like you’re setting up a second catastrophe.”  
  
The man with the voices (Dennis, he recalls from the files) turns to look at him as he speaks, and Waylon grits his teeth.  
  
Dr. Clark chuckles. “Everyone’s well medicated, and our staff are well trained. Plus, most of the big offenders are elsewhere.”  
  
“Or dead.”  
  
She nods as they pass through. “We also have extra security provided by Murkoff. Not as well trained but they know that we’re in charge.” She gives a glance at the guard following them. “We’re very well prepared.”  
  
“They seemed well prepared at Mount Massive too.”  
  
They move into a new wing, over an indoor bridge that’s long and low with big windows lining both walls. Waylon can see the building’s surroundings properly now. It’s all forest. There’s a light snow on the ground, but the sky is clear. “This is very rural.”  
  
She smiles. “Very private.”  
  
In the new wing, they take the elevator to the first floor, and then he’s being rolled directly through some doubledoors into a large courtyard. The open area is surrounded by building on all sides, high windows overlooking every part of it. There’s a basketball court in the far corner, some tables in another, but it’s mostly grass, sparse evergreen trees, and wide walkways. A single variant is sitting on a far bench, eyes closed, pitted face turned up into the sun. Dr. Clark talks in a low voice to the guard, who remains at the door, and then she takes hold of Waylon’s wheelchair, dismissing the nurse. She pushes him down a ramp into the garden, and parks him near a bench under a big pine tree. The wind rustles the branches. The air is cold and he can see his breath, but the sun is soft and warm.  
  
Dr. Clark sits on the bench next to him and sighs, taking in the sky. The guard keeps his eyes fixed in their direction. Waylon, head clearer without so many patients around, goes over the information he’s been given.  
  
“What happened to the Morphogenic Engine?” He asks.  
  
“Destroyed in the fire. It spread fast from the chapel, all that old decaying wood, and once it started hitting the testing rooms, all that flammable fuel and equipment…” She flares her fingers. “Boom. The whole place is ash.”  
  
He swallows. “And the… the Walrider?”  
  
She frowns. “You mean the nanite swarm? They aren’t sure. It vanished once the Engine shut down. Presumably that was powering it.”  
  
Waylon shivers. He can’t be sure that the clouding she described in his x-rays is actually nanotech, and since she seems certain the Walrider is gone, she must not suspect it. Because if he’s still got living nanomachines flying around, and through, his body, the Walrider is most certainly still out there. Maybe the nanites are what’s hastening his recovery, so he supposes he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. At least, not yet.  
  
Dr. Clark’s turned to face him, elbows on her knees. She’s giving him a contemplative look. “Mr. Park… I’ve been very forthcoming with you. And I do sincerely want to help you, and all these men. So I need to start asking for things from you.” She folds her hands, and he braces himself.  
  
“You were on staff before the incident. Almost none of the staff were recovered, and no one in higher level positions. You worked closely with the software.”  
  
The chill in his body has nothing to do with the chill in the air. “They want to replicate it.”  
  
She shakes her head. “They’ve assured me that they have no desire to build another Engine. It was a disaster, after all. But in order to understand what happened to you, it would help to know what exactly the nanotechnology was programmed to DO. We know that Wernicke wanted to build weapons, but it doesn’t explain all of the other side effects. The machines got into everyone’s heads, and they drove everyone insane, that was all part of Wernicke’s design. But it seems like there is much more to it than that. The machines were making changes to people’s bodies that weren’t programmed.”  
  
“You think they were… what? Sentient?” Waylon can’t help his curiosity from piquing. Imagine the first real AI being born in a place like Mount Massive. It would wipe out humanity the first chance it got.  
  
She chuckles. “Probably not THAT. But you know the code, you were up close and personal with it, you’d know better than anyone if someone were… adding functionality?”  
  
“You think someone sabotaged it?” He asked. In hindsight, it made sense; the way that the experiment failed so spectacularly and devolved so perfectly… Maybe there had been more than one person at the facility who couldn’t stand to see it happen anymore.  
  
Dr. Clark shrugs. “Murkoff is just asking that you think about it. Share any details you recall. They’re obviously investigating as well, but the more hands on deck, the better.” She smiles. “They do still consider you an employee, Waylon. Part of the team.”  
  
He frowns deeply, forehead creased, and doesn’t respond. His nose has started to run a bit in the cold air.  
  
Dr. Clark pats her thighs and stands. “Ah, it is getting a bit chilly, isn’t it! I’m going to let the staff know that you’re free to come down here when you’d like. The cafeteria is on the second floor in this wing, so when you’re walking on your own, you can bring your lunch out to eat here as well. Although,” she turns her eyes to the sky. “We should start getting snow soon. Winters up here aren’t usually too bad, but you know, climate change has been giving us a rough one once in awhile.”  
  
She wheels him back in, and the guard moves to follow. The nurse doesn’t reappear. After they take the lift and then the bridge back to the main building, he asks, “What’s on the fifth floor?”  
  
The woman looks like she has something else to say, but then lets out a thoughtful sigh. “Let me show you.”  
  
The guard steps close to her then and mutters something about protocol, but she gives him a chiding look and he steps back, looking grim. His hand falls to his sidearm and Waylon can hear the leather of the holster squeak as he grips it tightly.  
  
She has to swipe a security card before pressing 5; Waylon wonders if a card is needed to access the first floor as well. Escape will be difficult without first floor access. But not impossible.  
  
In the ride up to the top floor, he senses the guard getting tense, and his nerves spike. He can tell, somehow even without seeing him directly, parked as he is facing the doors, that the armed and armored man at his back, is afraid.  
  
When the doors open onto the top floor, all he can smell is blood.


	6. Chapter 6

Dr. Clark hesitates as she rolls him into the reception area on the top floor. It’s almost empty and half the lights are out, darkening the corners, and it makes Waylon begin to sweat. There’s one other man in the room, another doctor, stocky with a graying beard, studying some files spread out on the empty reception desk. He looks up instantly when they arrive, startled to see them.  
  
“Dr. Clark,” he says, voice slightly accented. “I thought we discussed doing this another day?”  
  
She pushes Waylon up to the desk and then steps up beside him. “Murkoff instructed me to be forthcoming with Mr. Park. He’s asked, so I’m not going to withhold. Mr. Park, this is Dr. Basu. He’s our psychiatric director. He’s currently evaluating our…” she pauses. “... our more ‘at risk’ patients.”  
  
Dr. Basu frowns. “You mean our more _dangerous_ ones.” She throws him a sharp look, but he spreads his hands in obvious exasperation. “You are the one who said you wanted to be honest.”  
  
Dr. Clark directs a friendly smile back at Waylon, but he’s already caught on. “This floor is a prison.”  
  
“Not… exactly. We keep them confined, for our safety and theirs, but it’s hardly prison conditions.” She starts to pace, circling Dr. Basu to the desk, where she looks over the files with restrained interest. “Dr. Basu will be helping you with your PTSD therapy when you move to the lower floor in a few weeks. You’ll like him. He hates Murkoff as much as you do.”  
  
Dr. Basu huffs, giving her a dark look, but doesn’t deny it. She smirks at him.  
  
Waylon places it then, what’s been bothering him about her. Arrogance. She’s forthcoming because she’s confident that he’ll comply with whatever’s asked of him. He has so far, causing so little trouble for them. She’s confident that her facility is fully in control of him, and the patients downstairs.  
  
He had thought her lack of fear in the face of this nightmare was simply professionalism. But she’s NOT afraid. She’s no different than Blaire.  
  
She uses the right language, to convince people she cares, but ultimately, whether it’s making people healthy, or getting answers for her company, she just wants to win. She is exposing him to too much, too fast. His health is not a concern at all.  
  
It comes to him in a flash of clarity, and with a surety he’s never had before. He thinks it might be some side effect of his madness, the manufactured insanity that they drove him into at Mount Massive. Paranoia and distrust are certainly not rare symptoms.  
  
But he knows there is little he can trust anymore besides himself. He’s not about to let doubt bring him down. He tries to steel himself.  
  
“Who are the dangerous patients?” he asks, his voice wobbling. He’s inventorying them in his head, the ones who tried hardest to kill him. The list he comes up with are dead men, for the most part, but the few that are unaccounted for make him nervous.  
  
Dr. Clark, unable to disguise her excitement entirely, loops back behind him, pushing him forward toward a set of swinging doors. Dr. Basu follows reluctantly, along with the guard, who seems unable to take his hand away from his gun.  
  
The metallic smell that Waylon can’t distinguish from the blood and viscera smell of the Asylum is stronger past the doors. There are more guards inside, and they give the group concerned looks. There is a wide hallway here, one side lined with doors and big double-paned glass windows.  
  
She rolls him through, nonchalant. “These were the patients who were identified as high threat before they were brought in, but unfortunately we don’t have their detailed histories, all lost in the fire. A few, we don’t even have names. So it’s been a bit of a guessing game, figuring out what was actually wrong with them before, and what’s a result of the testing.”  
  
The first few rooms have hulking shapes of patients in them, but no one he recognizes. Further down, an average sized man, less scarred than the rest, with a scruffy unshaven face, spots him coming and starts banging his hands against the glass and yelling. The rooms are soundproofed, so it’s silent except for a very faint thud when his fist connects.  
  
Waylon narrows his eyes. The man’s mouth is moving around words, he’s sure of it, and looks like he’s trying to tell them something. “He doesn’t look like the other patients.”  
  
Dr. Clark gives him a strange look, but then nods. “One of the ones with no background. Murkoff’s men picked him up in the woods outside the Asylum, full of bullet holes. Probably got caught in some unlucky crossfire, but he _is_ lucky he didn’t bleed out.” She steers him by, and the man follows them, pushing himself hard against the glass, trying to make them hear him. Waylon can’t pull his eyes away, until he sees what’s in the next room. Distantly, he feels the wheelchair slow. And then, everything slows.  
  
He’s screaming and kicking across the floor before he even realizes he’s toppled the chair. His back connects with the far wall. Dr. Clark is trying to reach for him, mouthing words, but he keeps thrashing and she can’t get close. Dr. Basu is fumbling with a syringe and vial, and the guard has pulled his gun, though he has it pointed at the ground, glancing between Waylon and the window.  
  
Inside the room is a hospital bed identical to his, steady vitals lighting up the big display, IV stand loaded with fluids.  
  
On the bed is the broad body of Eddie Gluskin.  
  
He’s _breathing_.  
  
Waylon needs to get out. He needs out. He realizes he’s screaming it, voice hoarse with it. There’s blood in his mouth. The smell of it is all over, like the walls are coated with it. Two of the guards from the end of the hall come and they grab him, holding him down. He smashes his cast so hard into the floor that the plaster cracks.  
  
Dr. Basu gets the needle into his arm, and his body goes slow and heavy.  
  
As he drifts away, all he can hear are his own short, panicked breaths, and Dr. Clark saying, “Well, that was interesting.”  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Waylon wakes up in a new room. There is a window on one wall, and his bed is a real bed. The color of the wall matches the bedspread, a dark neutral moss green. He is attached to an IV again, and Carla is in the process of removing the needle. He has to fight very, very hard against his instinct to hit her, to get away.  
  
He instantly remembers everything, like he was barely asleep at all. His heart rate spikes and he can’t breathe. He tries to struggle up through the blanket thrown over his legs but his limbs are uncoordinated. Carla steps away from him, is talking to him, trying to get him calm.  
  
Dr. Basu is in a chair in the corner, but he stands quickly when Carla steps back. “Waylon,” he says, and somehow Waylon hears him.  
  
“G-god, god, how is he alive, how-” Waylon’s voice comes out in sputters. He’s sobbing without tears. The man who hunted him, who tried to cut him in half, who tried to hang him, a man who he watched DIE, is sleeping soundly upstairs. His thoughts fly to the exits, to the layout, where can he hide when things go bad-  
  
“Waylon,” the doctor repeats, and the man has a gift, his voice soothing. “Focus on calming yourself. That man is on heavy tranquilizers, behind reinforced doors and glass, two stories away. He cannot reach you.”  
  
Dr. Basu slowly reaches out and grips Waylon’s hand, and he lets him, his whole body tensed to fight if he has to. “Breathe with me, Waylon. Your body will not function optimally if you cannot control it. Breathe, and get control.”  
  
The man leads him through a breathing exercise, and Waylon slowly, slowly calms down. When his body feels like his again, he releases the man’s hand, which he hadn’t even realized he was squeezing tight.  
  
“How is he alive?” he repeats.  
  
Dr. Basu sighs heavily. “We can’t tell you. We don’t know. The operatives found him like you left him on your recordings, and they thought he was dead too, until they pulled him down and he nearly tore one of their men in half. They put ten tranquilizers in him before he went down, half of his stomach on the floor.” He grimaces. “Sorry, that was quite graphic. We theorize it’s the same effect that you are experiencing. You are healing phenomenally well, better each day, in fact. He lived, and has been getting better in the same way. Many of the patients have.”  
  
“Did anyone else survive? T-the twins, or-”  
  
Dr. Basu shakes his head. “Gluskin is the only one from your footage that we recovered alive, so far. Most of the others are unaccounted for, presumed to be among the dead.”  
  
He pauses. “Waylon, I’ve seen the recordings, and I know what he has done to you. But you must remember, in the end, he is just a sick man, not a monster.”  
  
Waylon feels faint, crumpled in the bed, tangled in the blanket, coated in sweat. He tries to focus on the trees outside. “Did Dr. Clark take me there on purpose?”  
  
Dr. Basu hesitates. He wants to lie.  
  
Waylon continues, voice escalating to a shot, “Why did she want me to see that? What was she hoping for? What are any of you hoping for? _What do you want from me?!_ ”  
  
The doctor just looks at him, eyes full of pity.  
  
“Murkoff is an evil corporation,” the doctor says. “I was the only member of the board who voted against the buyout of our facility, but it wasn’t enough to prevent it. Dr. Clark and I built Blue Garden from the ground up, and I always thought it was to help people. My mother suffered from an untreated bipolar disorder that lead to her death, and I always wanted to do more to prevent more deaths like hers. But Dr. Clark… I worked with her for so long before I saw the truth. Murkoff… The things Murkoff asks us to do…”  
  
Waylon shudders.  
  
The man looks at him squarely. “I will get in quite a bit of trouble for telling you this. Dr. Clark intends to push you until you break.”  
  
“But why?”  
  
“Murkoff wants to know if there are any remnants of their experiments worth salvaging here. If there is anyone worth keeping. They didn’t think the effects of the Engine would remain active after its destruction, but judging by the patients we recovered, it doesn’t seem to be the case. They believe if you are put under extreme stress, that further effects could emerge.”  
  
Waylon’s on the verge of tears. “It’s the same shit as Mount Massive! Fucking up people’s heads, ruining them! All for what?!”  
  
Dr. Basu puts his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead. “Money. It’s always money.”  
  
They sit in silence a few minutes longer, Waylon mapping escape routes in his head, wondering if the glass of the window could break if he put a chair through it. Then several guards come, and Dr. Basu stands silently and goes with them, as if he was expecting them. Two guards remain outside the door.  
  
More long minutes later and Dr. Clark appears. She smiles at him warmly. “Waylon. I’m so sorry, I wanted to be here when you woke up, but it seems my colleague went and woke you early. He’s a good guy, I’ve known him for a long time, but we don’t always see eye to eye.” She sighs and seats herself in the corner chair, and flips open the file folder she brought with her. “You’re feeling better now, I hope?”  
  
Waylon scowls at her and bites his tongue.  
  
She sighs again. “Not speaking to me? I guess I can understand, considering the mistake I made. You seemed like you were doing so well, I had no idea seeing that patient would affect you that way.” She appears remorseful, but Waylon has little patience for it.  
  
She seems dismayed by his silence, but continues, “At least there is some good news though! We x-rayed your leg again while you were out. The results are incredible; the fracture has completely healed! We’re going to get you a crutch in case you need it, but I doubt you-”  
  
“I’d like to use a phone,” he interrupts. “I want to call my parents.”  
  
Her gaze snaps to him, eyes intent, like a predator’s eyes. “You know why it’s not possible.”  
  
“Because you fully intend to continue in Mount Massive’s footsteps,” he says bitterly, wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing his face against them.  
  
“My colleague is overly dramatic,” she huffs. “I can still assure you that we’re not here to recreate the Walrider, Waylon. I hope you’ll be able to understand. This would all be so much easier with your cooperation.”  
  
He can hear her shifting as she leans forward in her chair and puts down the file on the small dresser under the window. “Waylon, you’re the most sane person we pulled out of that place. You can understand that there are things happening to you that aren’t normal. Surely you want to know what’s going on as badly as we do?”  
  
He rolls his neck and looks at her square in the eye. “I _want_ to go home. And I want Murkoff to _burn_.”  
  
She must see something there, because she shivers, and leans back, away from him. “Well, that’s unfortunate. We’ll give you a couple days to think about it, if you want to change your mind.” She collects her folder and stands, pointedly not meeting his eyes. “You’ll still have free reign of the 3rd and 2nd floors, as well as the courtyard and cafeteria. If you act out in any way these privileges will be suspended, so keep that in mind if you decide to try anything.”  
  
Then she walks out the door and is gone. The two armed guards remain, one beside the door, one across the hall, staring in at him.  
  
Waylon wants to vomit. He wants to cry and scream. He pushes his legs off the bed and tries to think of Lisa, but when he does, he thinks of the dream, and the man he thought was dead, and all the feelings he thought he’d never have to deal with because of that.  
  
He’s in one of the resident rooms on the 3rd floor, which appears to have been made up for him. The open door reveals his name handwritten on a paper plaque. The room is more spacious than the room upstairs, the bed larger. There’s a small dresser with folded sets of clothes sitting on it, including pants and some thin papery slippers, and a small bag of toiletries. At the back of the room is a narrow door which leads to a small standing shower, a sink and a toilet. There is a closet by the entrance, standing empty.  
  
As he carefully stands to look out the window, still feeling woozy from the panic and the drugs, Carla comes back in. Her eyes are a bit red and her voice is shaky, but she remains professional. She explains that he’s allowed to shower now if he likes, and that he is required to report downstairs each morning for medications, but other than that he is free to do as he likes. He asks for a phone, and she looks at him for a long moment, and then leaves without a word.  
  
Waylon moves to the door and gives the guards a look, then closes it. They don’t protest. Then he strips his sweat-stained gown, grabs the toiletries and goes to shower, closing the bathroom door behind him.  
  
It’s been more than a month since he had a shower. In between, there was the torture at Mount Massive, and then he escaped and fled halfway across a state, and then they kept him here. The hot water cascades down his skinny body and he starts crying from the sheer simple pleasure of it. He scrubs his hair, and his scarred face, his scarred narrow chest and belly. They pulled the stitches while he was asleep, and the gash where Blaire stabbed him is a little clean dimple, slightly red. His legs are more muscular than he remembers, his pale finely-haired thighs firm as he scrubs them. All the running, he assumes.  
  
His dick is half hard by the end of it, but he can’t even look at it, doesn’t even think about touching it, because he doesn’t want it to remind him of the dream. He turns the shower as hot as he can stand, and then cranks off the heat so it blasts cold, and his whole body shrivels and tightens. Only then, he steps out and towels off.  
  
He moves to the sink to brush his teeth for the first time in a month, and his gums bleed and hurt like hell. He’s distracted by it and so he’s startled when he looks up and sees his face.  
  
The scarring isn’t as bad as it had looked in the car mirrors when he first escaped, a gnarled landscape of scrapes and pits running from his dark hairline down to his jaw. He must have scraped it when he was thrown down and it had gotten infected. But it’s not why he freezes.  
  
The whites of his eyes are almost completely red with blood. His irises are still dark brown, but his pupils are so wide and dark, they’re almost completely eclipsed. There’s a light that reflects behind them, the film on the back of his eyeball.  
  
He realizes he never turned on the bathroom light. The room is pitch black.  
  
Waylon shuts his eyes tight and slaps at the switch until it’s on, biting the plastic toothbrush hard between his teeth. In the light, his irises and pupils look closer to normal, though it seems not much can be done for the blood. No wonder people were acting afraid of him. He wonders why none of the doctors mentioned it.  
  
He shuts his eyes and breathes deep. You’re a variant, he repeats in his head. Not just a person. It’s normal for people to feel afraid. YOU were afraid of them too. You can see in the _fucking dark_. It’s not _personal_.  
  
It still doesn’t take the sting out of it though. Not being quite human anymore.  
  
He puts on the thin clean pants and fresh gown and paper slippers, then stands in front of the big window. It’s snowing outside, the snowflakes piling thick and white on the branches of the trees and on the ground three stories down. From this angle, he can finally make out the high wall that runs around the base of the building, about a hundred feet out, at least a story tall. Even if he smashed the window, he’d have to get over that wall.    
  
Worst case scenario, he thinks, is that they recovered all of the recordings. Either pulled from the mail before they reached their destinations, or, Murkoff got to the police, and Professor Li, and Ethan. If Dr. Clark and Dr. Basu have both seen them, there must still be copies floating around. Maybe they even have copies in this building, in case they need to review, for whatever they have planned for him. For all of them.  
  
The tape of his wife and babies being murdered is likely gone. It wouldn’t have any value in the experiment. Unless they plan to make him watch it later, if they can’t break him by other means.  
  
When he opens the door to his room and limps toward the elevator, the skeleton of his plan is already in place. He’ll appear to comply. He’ll gather more evidence. And he’ll wait for a window in which he can escape. He’ll go to Nevada, find the man Ethan told him about, and get Murkoff completely fucked.  
  
Of course, the details of that plan are still completely amorphous, but he’ll just have to wing it. He’s a fucking software engineer, not a professional spy. A software engineer with some kind of half baked Wolverine healing ability and night vision whose body is probably swarming with rogue nanites, but, still.  
  
The two armed men flank him as he walks across the bridge to the cafeteria, both at least a head taller than he is, their black-clothed bulk contrasting the slim light shape of him in his hospital garb. He thinks that they might just be there to intimidate him into complying and keeping in line, but then, he notices how some of the guards trade wild eyed glances when they pass, and he thinks maybe there’s more to it than that.  
  
Dr. Clark mentioned the patients are improving, getting healthier and stronger every day. Who knows what other abilities could emerge?  
  
The facility is a time bomb.  
  
He wants to head to the courtyard, get some space from the men behind him, and just sit in the snow until he’s sick, but he resists. The common room is nearly empty as he passes through it, a lone patient picking at a magazine like he’s not sure if it’ll jump up and bite him. So he heads to the cafeteria. It _is_ breakfast time.  
  
Waylon needs to know what he’s dealing with.


	8. Chapter 8

Blue Garden is big, built for residency of at least a few hundred at a time, but with under 30 patients and a small staff, it’s overly large, empty. The patients in the cafeteria space themselves out, for the most part, a few huddling together here and there. Friends from before, he guesses. The huddled groups help to remind him that the men are human beings.  
  
The guards drift to the wall once they enter, keeping tabs on him but not required to remain so close in the wide open space. A couple of the patients give Waylon wary looks when they see the armed men following him in. Good, he thinks. If they think he’s dangerous, maybe they won’t mess with him.  
  
He hasn’t spotted any clocks in the facility yet aside from staff watches, but now he knows it’s morning. There are some hot trays of breakfast foods set up over one half of the serving bar, fluffy scrambled eggs and shredded potatoes, a crockpot of hot oatmeal, and even a tray of croissants and butter. He wonders how long until they realize they’ll be able to feed these men garbage and get away with it, that food budget is one of the easiest to cut.  
  
He tries to focus on enjoying it while he has it, and hopes he can get out before it becomes an issue.  
  
He asks the man behind the bar to load up a tray with everything and goes to sit in an empty corner. When he puts the first bite in his mouth, his salivary glands kick on full force, and he whites out a little. He’s halfway through the tray before he realizes it. That’s also when he notices there’s a man standing a few feet away, gripping his own tray with both hands, and trembling slightly.  
  
Waylon looks up and recognizes Dennis, the man he had encountered briefly in the attic of the vocational block at Mount Massive. He stifles the urge to run.  
  
The man is average height, but square bodied, making him look bigger than he actually is, with a shaved head and light, mottled scarring on his face and arms. He’s still physically larger than Waylon, most people are, but seeing him in sunlight diminishes him. It helps too that the man is shaking, whole body curled inward.  
  
“I know you,” Dennis says, his voice surprisingly normal, rough with a country twang. “I think I hurt you in the… other hospital.”  
  
Waylon nods cautiously.  
  
“Can I sit?” the other man asks slowly, gesturing to the empty bench across from him. Waylon hesitates, then slowly nods again.  
  
Dennis slides into the seat, slightly diagonal from Waylon, and sets down his tray. His food is meager, a small cup of oatmeal, some fruit. Dennis catches him looking, and offers an embarrassed half-smile. “Don’t have much stomach after all that.”  
  
They eat in silence for a few moments, Waylon watching the man carefully as he picks at his banana. Dennis seems to be working up the nerve to speak. Waylon is polishing off the last of his eggs when he finally does.  
  
“Wasn’t right, what I did in there. I was scared, I didn’t wanna die, and my head was all mixed up, but it still, it wasn’t right. I wanted you to know that.”  
  
Waylon nods, taking a slow sip of coffee. “You…” Dennis startles a little at the sound of his voice. “You seem better.”  
  
Dennis nods. “They got me on some pills. It helps. Makes all the voices quiet.”  
  
“You have Dissociative Identity Disorder, right? Multiple personalities?”  
  
The other man smiles wider, still shy, like he thinks he’s not allowed to. “Old doctors diagnosed me with that, yeah. Kept me medicated. Then the other doctors said I was making it up and they… They did...” He sighs, and Waylon recalls the notes about Dennis’ treatment, the shock therapy. “Here they just give me pills again. Pills and talking. They make me tired, but I’d rather have the pills.”  
  
They’re quiet for a bit longer, as Waylon finishes his croissant and bowl of grapes. His tray is almost empty. Dennis’ bowl is still mostly full.  
  
“Where you from?” Dennis asks, practiced, like something he used to say when he lived in the world like a human being.  
  
“Colorado,” Waylon replies.  
  
“No, I mean, where you really from?” Dennis asks, making a gesture to his eyes.  
  
Waylon freezes and stares at the man, incredulous. Of all the things he’s encountered because of Murkoff, he wasn’t expecting casual racial ignorance. He’s not sure why he’s so surprised. The guy does seem like a redneck, after all.  
  
“Colorado,” he repeats hotly. “But my grandparents were from South Korea, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
  
Dennis makes an “oh” shape with his mouth and nods. He doesn’t seem aware he’s done anything rude. Waylon sighs into the last of his coffee and resolves not to let it bother him. There are bigger battles to fight.  
  
“Some of the other guys, they say…” Dennis ventures quietly. He stares at his tray for a long time, then hardens his mouth. “They say you aren’t crazy like us. That you work for… THEM.”  
  
Waylon glances around at the nearby patients, catching their suspicious glances here and there. That explains why they’re afraid of him. He considers for a long moment; it’d be useful if he doesn’t stand out, and being a former employee makes him a target. He could lie. But they’ve all seen him with Dr. Clark, getting a personal tour of the compound, and he knows being mentally ill doesn’t make someone stupid. “I used to. I tried to tell people about what they were doing, and they locked me up.”  
  
Dennis deflates a little. Waylon quirks an eyebrow. “You thought I could help you get out of here?”  
  
Dennis shrugs. “They won’t let me call my sister. Haven’t talked to her for... “ He sighs and rubs at the scarring on his cheek. “Thought maybe you could put in a word for us, you know, let us talk to our families?”  
  
Waylon snorts. “They won’t let me call mine either.” He puts down his empty mug. “If I could help you, I would.”  
  
The man looks a bit like he’s on the verge of tears, unable to meet Waylon’s eyes anymore. “I really am sorry for what I did to you. For… for giving you to…”  
  
Waylon stands sharply, cutting him off. “We all did things we regret in there. It was that machine, not us.” He pauses, taking in the hunched, shivering man and his uneaten breakfast. “But… thank you.” He offers a smile when Dennis looks up. “Your apology means a lot.”  
  
Dennis smiles tightly up at him, crooked and practiced, his eyes still wet and shiny. He nods.  
  
Waylon drops his tray in the bin near the trash can and heads for the door, shaken. The man who had tried to hack him up and had deliberately driven him into the hands of the man who tried to cut off his dick was crying and apologizing to him over oatmeal.  
  
They’re people, he repeats to himself, looking over the cafeteria.  
  
They’re people you could help, he hears in Lisa’s voice.


	9. Chapter 9

He’s lost in thought as he exits the cafeteria, the two guards moving up behind him, so he startles when he hears the click of women’s heels and a soft voice, “Mr. Park?”  
  
A woman in a white doctor’s coat and knee-length skirt is walking toward him, short with long dark hair. In the dim winter light, for a second, she looks like Lisa. But she’s wearing more makeup, her hair is buoyant and artfully curled at the tips, her perfume is a touch too heavy. She smiles at him with straight and bright white teeth. “Mr. Park. My name’s Dr. Lin. I’m going to be facilitating your psychological treatment for the next few weeks. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”  
  
Waylon furrows his brow. “I thought Dr. Basu was going to do that?”  
  
She giggles uncomfortably, a quiet tittering that she doesn’t seem entirely in control of. “Unfortunately Dr. Basu had to go on leave suddenly, so I’m stepping up in his place.”  
  
Waylon frowns and furrows his eyebrows. “Disagreements with the management?”  
  
There’s a wild-eyed flash across her face, just an instant and then smothered. Denial, then. “A personal issue, I believe. Can you follow me to my office?” She swivels and taps quickly away, hair bouncing. Waylon sees one of the guards looking at her legs. He sighs, and follows.  
  
He follows Dr. Lin back over the bridge and down one of the long halls on the second floor. The offices there are big, with wide windows. Her’s is impersonal but luxurious, a leather couch against a wall, leather and wood chairs, a heavy wooden antique desk, some quiet piano music playing. The desk is stacked with folders and documents, likely catching up on the work she’ll have to do after Dr. Basu’s sudden departure. Waylon wonders whether she’s dismayed or enthusiastic about her promotion. She has an exhaustion about her, but whether it’s from the situation or the work itself is harder to discern.  
  
Waylon wishes he’d picked up on these qualities in people before he’d accepted the job at Murkoff. His second interview was face to face with Jeremy Blaire. He’s sure he never would have taken it.  
  
She closes the door behind him, nodding to the guards who have positioned themselves outside to give them some semblance of privacy. The blinds on the windows are open, however, and the two men can see him easily.  
  
“Please sit,” she smiles, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk. It’s soft smooth leather and polished dark wood, and he perches on it gingerly, feeling it creak under his slight weight. She settles herself on the other side, cracking a thick folder and paging through.  
  
“So, Waylon,” she begins, folding her slender hands and smiling again. “How are you today?”  
  
He gives her a flat look. He imagines the picture he makes, still bruised, face scarred and eyes dark and filled with blood, still gaunt with weight loss, sitting in this nice leather chair in paper shoes. And she asks how he is.  
  
Dr. Lin chuckles. “That’s a familiar look. A lot of the other patients feel the same way.”  
  
“You watched the recordings, didn’t you?”  
  
She flattens her mouth a little, lips tight. “Yes. I don’t mean to reduce the weight of your experiences, of course. I just want you to feel more comfortable.”  
  
Waylon gives her an incredulous look. He wants to throw up his hands and yell at her. But he swallows it down, remembers that his best shot to freedom and revenge is patience, and sighs.  
  
She smiles again, quirking her eyebrows into a sympathetic look. “I know it will be difficult. But I’d like for you to recount your experience in Mount Massive, in your own words. As much detail as you can remember.”  
  
He licks his lips, and then he does, haltingly at first, but eventually, it’s a flood of words. Sending the email, Blaire locking him up, the psychological torture, the Engine… And then the single night of the Walrider incident, breaking free of his cage, recording, running from dark hall to dark bloody hall, the men, all of the sick, _angry_ men. He knows he can’t trust her, that his reactions are likely being recorded and analyzed, but there’s still relief in it, heavy relief, to put words to the things that happened there.  
  
She stops him when he gets to Frank Manera, the cannibalistic killer whose name he only knew from a lucky glance at a file. “In your notes,” she says, “the ones to your wife. You mentioned he looked at you with desire.”  
  
Waylon frowns. He’d thought his notes were lost along with the files he’d been collecting, dropped and scattered somewhere near the end of his escape and presumably consumed in the fire. Apparently not so lucky. “I was meat to him. It was like… the look people give a big cooked turkey on Thanksgiving.”  
  
She makes a note on a small notepad, absorbed in the details on paper in front of her. “Hm, okay. You can continue.”  
  
He does, but as he nears the end of it, he begins to waver. He finds himself stretching details into lengthy explanations, and his breathing grows short, chest tight around his heart. He’s in the room with the stairs, with Dennis, and he realizes he’s shaking, and he can’t go on. Objectively he knows what he’s giving them, that he should force himself to say the words and divorce himself from the feelings, but he can’t. He physically can’t.  
  
She looks up in his silence. “Waylon?”  
  
He shakes his head. “Can we take a break?”  
  
She puts her pen to her lips thoughtfully. “Waylon, it really would make you feel better to talk about it.”  
  
“I know. But I.. I can’t.”  
  
She shifts in her seat as he rings the fabric of his gown in his sweaty hands. “You encountered so many horrors in that place, Waylon. Why is Eddie Gluskin the one that you can’t speak about?”  
  
“Please don’t say his name,” he sputters, running a hand over his face.  
  
She plants her elbows on the desk, firmly, and he should have seen it coming. “Does it have to do with your sexuality, Waylon?”  
  
He’s so startled by the question that all he can do is stare at her.  
  
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she continues with a knowing smirk. “A closeted gay man married to a woman is not particularly uncommon-”  
  
“I’m not gay,” he barks. “I loved Lisa-”  
  
“Bisexual, then. Murkoff investigates its prospective employees thoroughly, Waylon, and they certainly didn’t miss the kinds of activity you used to indulge in before those kids came along.” Her voice is still sweet and pleasant, at odds with the acidity of her words. Waylon’s whole body is trembling. “At first they thought it was a typical reaction. A straight man enduring even non-violent sexual advances from another man can be severely traumatizing, such is the unfortunate state of masculinity in this day and age. But then we saw your history with men-”  
  
“You think I’m less likely to be traumatized by the threat of violent rape because I’m attracted to men?!” Waylon sputters, standing suddenly. He hears the shift of the guards outside the door.  
  
She leans back in her chair, startled. Perhaps she had been fooled by his small stature and meek posture, thinking she could bully him into what she wanted. But she’s inexperienced, nothing like Dr. clark, and he can see her hands shaking. “I’m only suggesting,” she answers placatingly, “that there was something more to this encounter for you than the others.”  
  
“He wanted to cut off my dick!”  
  
“The importance men place on their genitalia and their fear of feminization could-”  
  
“It doesn’t have anything to do with my masculinity OR my sexuality!! He wanted to CUT ME OPEN and-” The door cracks open slightly and a guard peers in at them, stoppering Waylon’s shouts. He physically steps away from the door, unable to help it,  and takes a deep breath.  
  
Dr. Lin, who had been slowly deflating in her seat, looks up at him with smoldering eyes. “I only asked because in your own footage, Mr. Gluskin’s trying to saw you open and you’re lying there with half an erection.”  
  
Waylon feels like all of the blood has left his body and climbed into his brain. His face is hot and red. The guard raises an eyebrow at him.  
  
Dr. Lin motions to the guard to close the door again, regaining her composure. She doesn't apologize.  
  
Waylon’s feet feel like they’re cemented to the floor. He feels a new panic attack lurching inside his chest, ready to be born.  
  
“All kinds of reactions can trigger as fear responses, I shouldn’t assume that there was anything appealing about the situation for you. It’s just, combined with your history, and compared to your physical reactions to other attacks…” She’s not meeting his eyes, paging through notes to occupy her hands. Her face is flushed.  
  
This is what she was supposed to do, he realizes. She didn’t mess up, saying what she did. She’s just bad at it.  
  
“It’s just that, Dr. Clark and I both agree,” she looks up at him under her long lashes, baby-faced. “It might do you some good if you met him. Outside that place, both of you properly medicated. Help you see that he’s just a person-”  
  
He shakes his head hard, but he doesn’t speak.  
  
He doesn’t remember the erection, not really. He hasn’t revisited his memories of that time, but he knows he was a mess, a cataclysm of emotions bundled into those few seconds on Gluskin’s table. He’s not sure what he was feeling. It was a terror so far beyond how he had imagined terror, the fear of a human facing the worst physical pain they will ever experience, of seeing the meat that makes them the shape of a person come irrevocably apart, and past it, the unknown expanse of _death_. But there was more to it than that.  
  
He had been in survival mode the whole time he was with Eddie Gluskin. So he had never really analyzed how he felt about any of it. He was indescribably afraid to.  
  
Dr. Lin is watching him carefully. He realizes he’s been standing silently for several minutes.  
  
“Can we take a break?” he asks, voice shaking.  
  
She carefully tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear with a dark fingernail, and nods. “Let’s meet again on Thursday.”  
  
Waylon exits the office and is halfway down the hall before he realizes he has no idea what day it is.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some detailed F/M/M sex in this chapter and also some explicit masturbation. Please never use soap as lube. Also messed with Waylon's canon a lot. To be fair, they never state definitively that he ISN'T wildly bisexual, right?

He moves on autopilot, the guards tailing him closely, to the courtyard. One has his hand on his gun constantly now, throwing him worried glances when he thinks he can’t see. He wonders if they made the guards watch the tapes, or if this is the first taste they’re getting of how truly fucked up all of this is.  
  
It’s snowing heavily outside, thick white flakes catching in his hair, the air biting, his breath thick. No one else is out. One guard warns him he’ll have to come back inside in a few minutes. He snorts, and trudges out into the snow in his paper slippers. He finds a bench and he sits, the cold snow instantly soaking his thin pants. He breathes clouds into the air and stares into the bright, bright white of the winter sky. He slowly comes back to himself, chest still tight, but his body feeling like his own again.  
  
They’re people, he hears again in Lisa’s voice, and he thinks of Eddie Gluskin on the hospital bed upstairs.  
  
His thoughts and feelings about the Groom are a tight, toxic tangle that he’s kept buried ever since he escaped the gymnasium, ever since he had felt the man’s hand clutching his until it weakened and slipped away. When he watched the man die, he buried all of it in the relief of escape. He rolls it over in his mind, that moment, all of them.  
  
It’s time, he thinks.  
  
Then he cracks it open.

  
  
The problem was, of course, that Eddie Gluskin, like the night nurse Daniel, was exactly the type of guy that Lisa picked for him.  
  
Waylon Park had known since grade school that he was bisexual. In college, before he had met Lisa, he had dated boys and girls, and loved both. The difficulty was that he wanted a family, he wanted to marry and have kids, and the kind of guy he was attracted to at the time wasn’t interested in that. So when he met Lisa, and found out she wanted a family too, he made up his mind, and tried to bury that part of himself. He didn’t even tell her.  
  
They were already engaged by the time Lisa found out.  
  
They had met an old boyfriend of Waylon’s while they were out at a coffee shop. He had been polite but had made references to their relationship, and she hadn’t missed it. She had a predictable response, and nearly called off the wedding. They hadn’t talked for a week. He had thought she was offended that he wasn’t entirely straight. When they talked again, she made it clear that she was angry he had kept it secret, when they shared everything else. And… she was scared that she wouldn’t be enough for him. He tried everything he could to convince her otherwise, but she still insisted, until eventually, she just stopped him mid-argument and said “I just want to try it.”  
  
About a month later, they had their first threesome. Or, more accurately, Lisa watched and masturbated while a man fucked him.  
  
She admitted after their guest had left that she’d never come so hard in her life.  
  
It had been… exhilarating.  
  
She picked them, either online or through school, usually freshly uncloseted young men looking for their first fuck. She was always so careful, to make sure they were clean, that they knew the rules. It had made him warm inside, knowing she was taking care of him. They both liked big men, guys who could hold Waylon down, with thick cocks that made him drool and Lisa grimace and clench her thighs together. She never had sex with them, though occasionally she would let Waylon eat her out while the guy was pounding away on his prostate, big hands wrapped around his slim pale hips as she shuddered and moaned and couldn’t tear her eyes away.  
  
The first time they’d done that, Waylon had come against the bed without even touching his cock.  
  
Lisa was his angel, his queen. She ruled him, and cared for him, and gave him what he needed. He worshipped her.  
  
The encounters happened every few months for several years, even through their marriage. It was a well kept secret; Lisa was always careful about that. Knowing that he had been under enough scrutiny for Murkoff to have turned it up makes his skin itch. She had been so careful.  
  
After they had been married about three years, Lisa got pregnant.  
  
It was Waylon who voiced first that they needed to stop. Lisa had bit her lip, and then nodded reluctantly, and admitted she’d thought the same thing. She’d had a taste of sexual freedom, she knew what she liked, and what he liked, but in the end, the baby was more important. Strangers coming into their home, the always constant slim risk that something could go wrong, that one of them could drag in something dark… It was too much.  
  
It didn’t stop him from thinking about it. The game evolved out of necessity, to a carefully locked and hidden box containing the thick strap-on that Lisa would fuck him with sometimes, and he would close his eyes and imagine she was a big broad body with a hairy chest, and she would know, and let him.  
  
He closes his eyes against the white sky. He feels shitty and greedy, thinking about it now. She had accommodated his sexual preferences so fully that he hadn’t even noticed the truth of it, until now.  
  
It was like she’d said. Lisa, just Lisa, had never been enough for him.  
  
Because Waylon Park really liked getting fucked.  
  
He remembers the twisting dark of the vocational block, of the Groom’s voice, fluctuating between charming and sweet, to vitriolic, violent. The survival instinct had made him a blank while he was in it, shutting down the sensations of his body just to run, fight, flee, shutting down the complications of thought, but in retrospect…  
  
In retrospect, it was exactly what got him hard.  
  
The Groom, Eddie Gluskin, singing and smiling in the dark as Waylon kneeled on the gritty floor, calling him his darling, and in the next second, calling him a slut, because he _was_ , a filthy, ungrateful-  
  
He squirms in his seat in the cold snow, opening his eyes.  
  
It was so profoundly fucked up. He’s horrified, and ashamed, and he wants to cry for Lisa, for her tragedy of a life married to a man who would become this twisted monster who would find any kind of appeal in the idea of getting carved open, making a place for what was no doubt a monstrous, hot, slick cock-  
  
Waylon stands abruptly and marches back inside before he realizes he’s decided to do so. He feels the thread inside him that connects his dick to his brain coiling tight, like a cello string, the cold doing little to steady it. It’s reverberating the sound of Gluskin’s voice, crying, “Darling!”  
  
The two guards pick up behind him, cramming themselves into the elevator. On the bridge back to the main building, one tells him to slow down, and he realizes he’s walking so quickly that they’re having trouble keeping up. He slows, but only barely, and then he’s in the elevator again, the third floor, the hall, and then he closes the door to his room in their faces and he’s alone.  
  
His cock is hard, rubbing a wet patch onto the crotch of his hospital pants. It’s been a long time since he’d gotten off, not including the weird wet nightmare he'd had upstairs, which seemed a lot less weird with his newly sorted feelings. It’d been even longer since something had gotten him this worked up, this desperate.    
  
Waylon shucks his clothes in front of the bright white window and closes himself in the bathroom, lights off. He can still see perfectly, although everything has taken on a gray quality, the warm pale skin on his body taking on a rosy glow. His cock, pink-headed and only a smidge smaller than average, juts obscenely from his hips, leaking precome. It’s the first time he’s been able to look at it and not feel sick. He positions himself naked in the shower stall, water off, pours a handful of shampoo into his palm, and pushes two soapy fingers into his asshole, simultaneously grabbing the damp head of his cock and squeezing. He's so keyed up it doesn't even hurt.  
  
He comes in seconds, the warmth of orgasm flooding his whole body, down to his toes. He pushes his chest against the cold tiles, gasping and arching his back. His come splatters the wall and the floor in thin ropes. A strangled groan escapes him before he can cut it off.  
  
He fingers himself through it, and then keeps probing and rubbing. There is a burn now from the stretch and soap, and his cock aches from how tightly he’d stroked it, but pain and pleasure are a blur for him. He remembers the feeling of the Groom’s thick fingered, calloused hand rubbing the soft skin of his inner thigh. He pushes in a third finger. The soap has worked itself into a bubbling lather in his ass, and he knows he’s going to regret it so fucking much once he’s come down from this, but with the hormone deluge in his system, he can’t make himself care.  
  
The Groom wouldn’t let up on him, he thinks.  
  
His cock hardens again as he’s trying to fit his pinky in. His shoulder aches from keeping it pushed back, he’s drooling on the bathroom wall where he’s pressed his face into it, and his chest and back have broken out in a fine layer of sweat. He fumbles for another handful of shampoo, slicks it over his cock, and wetly masturbates himself to a second orgasm. He can’t fit the fourth finger in, but gets the tip in just enough to crook it and push all his fingers hard against his prostate as he goes. It's almost too much stimulation, and his knees tremble under him, almost dropping him to the floor.  
  
He rubs his chest against the wall, pinching his nipples between the meat of his ribs and the tiles, and slowly drags his fingers from his anus. He feels it winking open and closed around nothing, and imagines it’s red and swollen from too much, too fast. The soap runs rivulets down the backs of his thighs. He knows he must look ridiculous, and wonders briefly if Murkoff would go so far as to plant cameras. He pushes his tongue out against the wall, imagining it’s Eddie Gluskin’s chest.  
  
He runs the shower hot.  
  
When he emerges from the bathroom again, he expects to find Dr. Clark or Dr. Lin sitting there, smirking at him. He’s almost surprised he’s still alone.  
  
He dresses himself in a second set of pants and a fresh shirt, and climbs back into bed. It can’t be any later than mid-afternoon, the sun still bright through the thick clouds outside, but he can barely keep his eyes open. He bundles himself in the blankets and sighs, the hormone haze still warming his body from the inside out.  
  
It’s sick and depraved, he thinks. It’s _monstrous_.  
  
As he’s drifting into sleep, Waylon can’t convince himself to care.


	11. Chapter 11

Miraculously, they let him sleep undisturbed until late the next morning. He expected an assault in the night, maybe they’d come for him, drag him to some upper floor and lock him in a cell with the man he feared and desired most. Because he’s still completely certain that Gluskin would fucking kill him, or at least beat him to within an inch of his life given the opportunity. No ifs or buts about that.  
  
He realizes as he slowly wakes that his plan is kind of going to shit.  
  
He was supposed to lie low and be compliant, but yesterday he screamed at a doctor and then closed himself up in his room for the rest of the day. He's probably missed the handout for meds. Not particularly model behavior.  
  
If he still had any hope of recovering the recordings and escaping, he has to work on playing it cool. Which will be difficult, if what Dr. Basu said was correct and they only plan to do just enough therapy to uncover all of their weaknesses, and then use it to wreck them all. It will also be difficult if the patients do continue to develop new abilities. Security would tighten even further if they eventually started developing, like, heat vision or telekinesis or something.  
  
Waylon rises and changes clothes again, opting for another quick shower as his ass still feels a bit sticky from the day before. He’s sore from the workout, but not as much as he would’ve expected. He brushes his teeth, puts on new paper slippers and takes a deep breath before opening the door.  
  
A fresh pair of guards are waiting outside. They look a little younger than the previous, and both seems to stiffen as they catch sight of him and his bloody eyes. Waylon catches a sentence of conversation die between them as they straighten. He gives both of them hard looks, clicks the door of his room closed firmly behind him, and starts off down the hall.  
  
Today, he maps the facility more carefully, under the guise of exploration. He knows it’ll be reported back and they’ll probably see right through it, but if it buys him an extra few hours before they decide he's too much of a flight risk and they need to lock him up, it could make all the difference. He slowly peeks in on the other rooms with their doors open. The few rooms around his are empty and unfurnished, but the farther along the halls he goes, the more patients there are. Dennis’ name appears on a room in the second hallway. He doesn’t recognize the other names.  
  
He pretends to stumble in the elevator and presses all the buttons at once. Only three and two light up, predictably. The first floor, the medical ward, and the prison on the top floor are sealed to him. The guards eyeball him but don’t seem overly suspicious.  
  
On two, he looks for the med room first. He had glimpsed it before, a little walled-off room with a heavy door and a little glass window for dispensing. He shuffles up to it and the woman inside gives him a long look before she moves out of sight. She comes back with a little paper cup full of pills and a plastic cup of water. "Ya get ONE. Med handout is at 9."  
  
"There's no clock in my room," he replies, inspecting the pills as she slides them through the small window. Antibiotics, he thinks, but there are a couple others he doesn't recognize. Probably to keep him relaxed. He downs them with the water.  
  
"You can put in a request with Mr. Boer. Normally patients bring their own amenities, but, special circumstances and all. His office is down the other hall, there." She points.  
  
After, he makes a more thorough inspection of the therapy and recreational rooms. The large main room that holds the tv and empty help desk is half full again, most of the patients engrossed in a dvd of Rain Man. A couple other rooms are open for patients, one holding art supplies and easels, another, a small library. There are a few attendants and guards scattered throughout. There are, suspiciously, no doctors or nurses. Waylon avoids the hall with Dr. Lin’s office, just in case she’s inside, and Mr. Boer's office as well; he was able to surmise earlier that the hall is mostly offices and supplies rooms, worth investigating, but maybe when he’s feeling less raw.   
  
They have mostly closed up in the cafeteria to prepare for dinner (the worker informs him it’s just past two pm) so he grabs a premade sandwich from the cooler and eats it quickly while studying the room layout. There are more large windows along one wall, letting in sunlight, but they’re frosted glass, giving him no clues to the external layout of this wing. There’s a single other patient in the room, eating a cookie and doing a crossword puzzle with a crayon, writing a bit too quickly to actually be solving it. Most of the patients at Mount Massive were shaved bald (Waylon being an exception, he supposes they were more eager to torture him to death than integrate him properly) and he notices the man’s hair has started growing back. The patient, the variant, looks content.   
  
Waylon chews the ham and cheese slowly as he processes the information. Ideally, he could steal a keycard. If he could find a gap in security, he could use a card to get up to the fifth floor, collect data, and then back to the ground. The whole facility is running on a skeleton crew, it wouldn’t be that outrageous. The problems are mainly that he doesn’t know where to find the data on five, he has no idea what the first floor looks like, and where could he get a keycard that wouldn’t be missed.  
  
There were less ideal alternatives, like locating a stairwell that might reach five, setting off a fire alarm, or just focusing on getting out and hoping maybe one of his recording copies made it to its destination. Even without proof, if he gets out alive, at least there would be someone out there who can fight them. In here, he’s silenced, useless.  
  
After finishing the sandwich he crosses the bridge, steels himself, and heads down the hall to Mr. Boer's office. Today's guards hang back a bit more than yesterday's set, presumably so they can talk out of earshot, and Waylon breathes a bit easier in the space. Thankfully, Dr. Lin's office is closed and dark, and he passes it quickly. Near the end there's a much smaller office connected to a large supply room with a locked gate over the doorway. It smells of cardboard and metal. Waylon lingers in the doorframe, allowing the guards to keep their line of sight on him, just to keep them at their current distance.   
  
Inside, there's a heavyset man sitting at a small desk, scruffy, in plain clothes. He looks up from his laptop with a start when Waylon peeks inside.  
  
"Oh Jesus," he says, patting his chest. "Startled me. At least you're one of the less scary ones. Ya need something?"  
  
"Uhm," Waylon shuffles his feet, feeling small. "The nurse said I could get a clock? For my room."  
  
Mr. Boer nods, "Oh, yeah sure. You haven't been in here yet right? Half those rooms upstairs are still missing some basic amenities, I can put together a box for you. Shaving kit, real slippers, sweaters…" He's shuffling through the neat stack of folders in a wire bin beside his desk. "What's the name?"  
  
"Waylon. Park."   
  
He pulls out a folder with just a couple sheets of paper in it. One is a form which he hands over to Waylon to fill out. It has a list of basic items he can choose from, and a field to request items to be ordered.   
  
"You can request particular things as long as they're not too expensive. We used to get like, specific magazines, new dvds, pornography, snacks, that kinda thing. Unfortunately they told us no current print media, or phones, laptops. Guess you lot must be in a pretty bad place to go on full lock down like that!" He chuckles.  
  
Now here's a man, Waylon thinks, who has definitely NOT seen the tapes.  
  
He considers the list carefully, thinking about what could be useful for his escape. There's not much, which is by design, he assumes. He chooses a range of things that will at least make him more comfortable and hands it back. Mr. Boer takes it and starts tapping away at his computer. "Okay Mr. Park, I'll input this and put together a box for you. You can pick it up around six?"  
  
Waylon shuffles and can't help but smirk. "I don't know what time it is."  
  
The man smiles. "There's a clock in the library. I dunno why they took 'em outta the main rooms, Dr. Clark says something about, patients getting stressed when they have to stare at them all day."  
  
To keep us disoriented, Waylon thinks, but doesn't say. He just smiles back and thanks him.  
  
Waylon locates the clock in the back of the library, almost hidden behind a shelf, and feels a surprising relief at knowing what time it is. It's about 3pm. His guards, again, hang near the front of the room, nervous when he disappears behind the shelves, but not wanting to be nearer than that.   
  
He meanders through the shelves for a bit, taking in the library's meager contents. It looks like it held more before, but got cleaned out recently. They probably didn't want the Mount Massive patients picking up old Stephen King novels and getting new ideas. It's also missing any recent magazines or newspapers; there are some very old ones stacked on a short shelf under a window, but that's all he finds.   
  
He locates a tiny comics section near the bottom of one shelf and picks up a graphic novel, takes note of the time once more, then exits to the main common room. The tv is playing Forrest Gump. He eases into a chair in an empty row, pulling his feet up on the seat as the surrounding patients watch him warily. Waylon’s guards settle themselves by the main desk and continue to chat quietly as Waylon cracks the comic. He likes these guards, he decides, if only because they seem to prefer to completely ignore him. When he decides to try something, he'll have to hope it's on their shift.  
  
Waylon tries to actually read the book, just to pass the time, but finds himself unable to focus. He's too hyper aware of the quiet group of patients surrounding him, shuffling and coughing. There's a man a row ahead of him whose face is split open, lips cleft around his broken teeth, still stitched along the forehead. There's another man missing his nose, the flesh of it curled in and gnarled. Yet another has skin that's still red and raw, smeared with ointment, likely a recurring rash. Most of them stare glassy-eyed at the screen, shaking themselves every once in awhile, like they're constantly on the verge of falling asleep. There's a man in the row behind Waylon who is silently crying.  
  
Waylon analyzes his own state and realizes he feels no different than before; if they did give him some kind of sedative, he doesn't feel any effects.   
  
There's some movement in his peripheral and then Dennis appears, looking at him nervously and smiling. He gestures to the empty seats next to Waylon, and waits for Waylon to nod before he slides into one. He has candy red paint around and under his fingernails, and he wiggles them when he notices Waylon looking. "They let me paint. You should try it. They have a lot of colors."  
  
Waylon, to his own surprise, doesn't feel the urge to flee this time. This man is so drastically different from the one who hurt him in Mount Massive, it's becoming easier and easier to be around him. Around all of them.  
  
"Maybe another time. Not really feeling creative today," Waylon answers with a half smile.  
  
Dennis nods. "I made a present for my sister. I'd show you but it's still wet. I hope it's dry by the time they let us make phone calls. Maybe I can mail it to her if it's too far for her to visit."  
  
Waylon's heart aches. This man's family is never going to hear from him again, if Murkoff has anything to say about it. "I'm sure she'll like it."  
  
The man smiles broadly. "She has a little boy. Maybe I'll have time to paint a picture for him too." Dennis looks at him for a long moment, like he's just remembered something. "You have family?"  
  
Waylon swallows hard, closing his book and laying it on the seat beside him. "I had a wife and two boys, but they're gone now."  
  
Dennis looks stricken, like he hadn't considered the possibility. "Oh, that's… That's too bad."  
  
They sit in silence for awhile and watch the movie. Waylon notices the war scenes have been entirely edited out, but the other patients don't seem to notice the plot discrepancies.  
  
Waylon catches himself feeling comfortable, somewhat, for the first time in a long time. He almost kind of likes them, this group of frightful and tortured men. He likes Dennis, now that he's properly medicated and functional. They're all in the same boat, after all.   
  
He can't help but think about what Dr. Lin suggested. About meeting Eddie Gluskin again.  
  
Maybe the man would be completely different. Medicated, away from the Engine, maybe he'd be something approaching normal. It's not that Waylon thought he could be friends with the man, but maybe, if he could see him as human, whatever sick thing inside him that still reacts to the Groom with a boner will shrivel up and die.   
  
If it's Murkoff's intent to drive him mad again, he knows that they don't intend for any encounters with Gluskin to go easy. More than likely they'll put him in a room with him and let the man beat him half to death just to see if anything interesting happens. It doesn't bode well for Gluskin, either, if they intend to keep his illness untreated just to keep him scary. Waylon also recalls the almost preternatural strength that the man had in Mount Massive; he was likely always strong, with the body he had, but maybe the potency of it was an effect of the Engine too. So they'll likely be pushing Eddie for results of some kind as much as they're pushing Waylon. They're probably upstairs at this very moment, trying to find Eddie's triggers, if they haven't already.  
  
Waylon shakes himself. He needs to stop thinking about Eddie Gluskin.  
  
"Dennis," Waylon murmurs, as quiet as he can. "You know we need to get out of here, right?"  
  
Dennis looks startled out the sound of his own name, then shutters his expression. "Doctors here would say that sounds like crazy talk." Then he leans in close, close enough that Waylon has to fight not to flinch, and says quietly, "The guys said you ain't crazy, though."  
  
"Not… about this," Waylon replies.   
  
Dennis stares at him intently, and Waylon feels flayed. The patient whispers, "They takin' men upstairs, in the night. To floor five."  
  
"Wha-?"  
  
"The ones that come back say it's just more tests. But the machines are funny. Don't hurt like the Engine did, but."  
  
Waylon leans in closer, ears sharp, forgetting any fear he might have had of the man. "Did they take you?"  
  
"Not yet," the man breathes. "But, thing is. I worry about it. Some of them don't come back."  
  
Waylon's blood chills, and he shivers. So soon. He thought they'd have a week or so, at least, with all of Dr. Clark's words about avoiding Mount Massive's mistakes.  
  
"So," Dennis continues. "Last riot didn't go great, but. If you got any kinda plans… we're with you."  
  
Waylon feels the pressure of other eyes; the patients near them have swiveled to look at him, fearful. Hopeful.  
  
"Hey," ones of Waylon's guards speaks up suddenly. "Keep some space."  
  
"Just friends shootin’ the shit, boss, no need to get aggressive," Dennis says as he throws up his hands dramatically, leaning away from Waylon, eyes wide. The other patients calmly turn back to the film.   
  
"Friends," the other guard snorts under his breath, chuckling. The other keeps his severe expression in place even as he leans back against the desk. "Well, shoot the shit with some space in between you."  
  
Dennis stands to shuffle away. "Yes, sorry sir." He passes behind Waylon's seat as he does, and whispers, just barely audible. "Four AM's when they come."  
  
Waylon sits through the rest of Forrest Gump and part of the first Harry Potter film with a writhing in his guts, hugging his knees tightly. Objectively, he knew it was a possibility, that there would be more happening here than talk therapy and meds. But knowing for sure… He's not sure how he'll get to sleep tonight.  
  
An orderly comes through and announces dinner, and the other patients stand and slowly shuffle off. Dennis emerges from the art room, hands spattered with sunflower yellow, and joins them. Waylon checks the clock, and hurries down the hall just in time; Mr. Boer is packing up to head home. He hands him a small office box with a smile, apologizing for the slippers being too large, and that he's already ordered a smaller size for him. They'll be here in a week. The man locks up his office and waves goodbye as he heads to the elevator.  
  
Waylon might not even be alive in a week. And that man puts his computer in his briefcase and walks out the front door at night. The unfairness of it is a heavy ball in Waylon's gut as he wanders back to his room, box in hand. He closes the guards out, and unpacks slowly. A battery operated clock. Extra batteries. Real slippers and socks. A warm knit cardigan. An extra blanket. Nice things.  
  
He skips dinner and lies in bed watching the clouds move in the dark sky outside. With the lights off, he sees them like they're day-bright. He listens to the quiet murmurs of the guards outside, their feet shifting. Around ten pm, there's some thunking of boots, and a click at the door. And then it's quiet.   
  
Waylon waits almost a full hour before he rises and tests the door. It's locked from the outside.   
  
He lies back down in bed and waits until 4 am. He listens to the squeak of wheels, a wheelchair, distant. There's no other indication of what's happened. No one comes for him. He doesn't sleep.  
  
There's another shuffle of boots at 7, and his door clicks again. He climbs off the bed at 8:30, brushes his teeth, and observes the dark sleep circles under his bloodshot eyes. Outside, the first set of guards are waiting again, and they follow him closely as he goes down to get his pills. One of the other patients mumbles to him at breakfast that Dennis is missing.  
  
Dr. Lin finds him in the common room before lunch. Turns out, today is Thursday.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for Eddie :)

"Have you thought about our proposal?" Dr. Lin asks, settling into her high backed leather chair. The door is cracked slightly this time, the more experienced set of guards insisting on it.  
  
Waylon, dressed today in his slightly too large slippers and sweater, sits in the chair across from her, hands folded, and focuses on looking tired and small. It's not exactly difficult. "Which one?"  
  
"Meeting Mr. Gluskin," she smiles. "We really do think it will be good for you. He's quite nice, actually, even charming." Waylon would swear he sees a blush tint her high cheeks.  
  
"I-I don't think I'm ready," he answers, more timidly than he feels. He wants to accuse her of bullshit, but bites it back. Dr. Clark might give him more clues if he did it to her, just as eager as he is to drop the pretense, but Dr. Lin seems determined to stick to the narrative. He feels, suddenly, inexplicably furious with her.  
  
"It would be extremely safe and controlled," she continues. "We have several rooms that we use for exposure therapy; they're split down the middle with a reinforced glass barrier. You can see each other, but there's no chance of physical contact."  
  
He raises an eyebrow at her. It's such a monumentally bad idea, he can't even articulate words for several seconds. He tries to think like someone who's considering it. "So," he sighs. "You think it'll be good for me because I can start to see him as a person, and overcome my fear. But what about him?"  
  
She looks confused. "What do you mean?"  
  
He shifts in his chair. "He's a patient too, right? You're treating him too? So you must think it'd be good for him as well. Like maybe if he sees a victim, he'll…" he trails off.   
  
Dr. Lin is looking increasingly uncomfortable. "Well, honestly, he probably won't recognize you at all. His delusions within Mount Massive were nearly all encompassing, he doesn't show any recognition when we show him photos of some of the men he…" She stops herself with a cough. "We don't think it'll be harmful for him. This would be more about you and your recovery."  
  
Waylon frowns deeply. They're hoping for more than his self improvement, he knows. They're pushing so hard to put them together, and voluntarily. They could have taken him in the night. But why?  
  
It comes to him with sudden easy clarity. Because to get whatever reaction they want, he can't be thrown in kicking and screaming.  
  
"It feels selfish," he hears himself saying.  
  
"Oh? How so?"   
  
"I mean," he gives her a look, the one he used to give Lisa when he was trying very very hard to get out of something. Lisa called it his puppy face. He doubts it works quite as well anymore, with the eyes. "You want me to empathize with him, so I don't see him as a monster. And I'm trying. So it feels selfish to do something that would benefit me, but he gets nothing out of it at all."  
  
He sighs heavily as she continues to watch him with quirked eyebrows. "I mean, wouldn't it be kinder to wait until he's had more treatment? So he'll feel better too, when he has to help me." He smiles nervously at the end of it. "Then, maybe I'll be ready."  
  
"So… That's still a no then," she says with a deep sigh.  
  
He keeps smiling. "I'm just not ready."  
  


  
At 4 am that night, they come for him.   
  
He spent the day the same as the previous, eating a little, watching some family friendly movies, listening to the patients murmur. Without Dennis, he's lost his easy connection to the other patients; he tries to talk to the one who let him know about Dennis, but the man is terrified of his guards, and Waylon can't exactly chase down and corner the man with the guards on his ass. None of the others seem eager to get close to him. A few orderlies come into the common room at 8 o' clock and shoo everyone off to bed. Lights off is at ten, and Waylon listens carefully to hear whether they lock the other doors as well. They do.  
  
His previous sleepless night catches up to him and he's dozing in the early morning when his door clicks open. The night nurse Daniel is standing there with Dr. Clark and two new guards. The wheelchair Daniel is pushing has thick nylon straps on the arm and foot rests. He jerks awake and sits straight up as the light clicks on. Dr. Clark smiles at him. "It's been awhile, Waylon. You were expecting us, right?"  
  
Waylon swallows hard. He thinks about fighting. Putting the chair through the window and jumping.Then he stands and lets them strap him into the chair, barefoot and shaking. Both guards are holding tasers. There's no point.  
  
He feels it roll over him as they push him from his room. The survivalist feeling. Like Mount Massive.  
  
"No need to be so nervous," Dr. Clark assures him as they squeeze into the elevator and she taps her card for level five. "We are honestly very interested in keeping you in one piece."  
  
"Would you tell me if you weren't?" he spits back.  
  
She grins. "Probably."  
  
Daniel leaves them at the elevator at the fifth floor (looking slightly uncomfortable about the whole thing, honestly) and a man in a labcoat takes his chair. They push him down a previously unexplored hallway, away from the patient cells. The halls are dark and to the right, light streams in from the windows overlooking a large continuous room. Inside, there are multiple people in coats and rubber gloves and masks, working over various workstations and pieces of equipment. It's a frenzy of activity. Waylon spots a patient he doesn't know strapped to a chair near the back of the room, a man seemingly questioning him while showing him flashcards.  
  
To the left is a line of closed doors and narrow shallow hallways. He catches a glimpse through one of some monitoring equipment, a board of blinking red lights. That's where they'd have copies of his recordings, he thinks.  
  
They pass and then Waylon is pushed into a second large room, just as well lit and heavy with equipment, but quiet and nearly empty. There's a couple of people watching over what looks like an MRI machine near the back, overseen by more armed guards. Dr. Clark is pulling on a labcoat as he's wheeled around and parked near a table laden with exam tools. She snaps on some gloves and smiles at him. "This will be much easier if you cooperate."  
  
Waylon doesn't fight, partially because he knows it would be fruitless, but also because he's mildly confused. He expected to be wheeled into a cell with Eddie Gluskin. He's holding out some small hope that it's not their plan for him today.  
  
He's subjected to some standard but uncomfortably thorough procedures. They swab his cheek and draw blood, check blood pressure, listen to his lungs. They push his eyelids open and give him eyedrops that make his vision blurry. They ask him to swallow two different cups of liquid, sharp and medicinal, without explaining either. A guard points his taser at him as he's released and asked to sit on an exam table to test his reflexes. Dr. Clark, smirking all the while, has him bend over and cough, putting her finger up his ass in full view of both guards and the other attendant. His face goes hot then and stays flushed red through the rest of the exam. She jokes about being glad she took his blood pressure already, and he has never wanted to hurt a woman in his entire life, until just now. He imagines pushing her off a cliff, seeing her face twist in fear at him, before she simply vanishes into an abyss.   
  
They put him back in the chair and wheel him to an alcove where a new doctor runs a basic psych test on him, which includes word association and rorschach cards. He's overly aggressive in his answers, he knows, but he's drawn thin, nerves singing in his fingers and toes from the straps.   
  
Finally, they bind him to a table and scan him in one of the MRI-esque machines. The camera inside spins around him, sending data almost instantly to the screens where Dr. Clark and the others watch attentively, and probably loading his body with an unhealthy dose of radiation. They spend a long time scanning his leg, the one that was wounded in Mount Massive, and then an equally long time on his head. They ask him to open his eyes wide as the little black orb rotates back and forth in front of his face. Dr. Clark asks if he's experienced any changes in his vision. He lies and says no. She makes a dissatisfied noise but doesn't pursue it.  
  
He doesn't know how long it all takes. It feels like hours. When he's strapped back into the wheelchair, his head is starting to droop, feeling his lack of sleep more keenly after the stress. He's hoping whatever they do to him next at least involves a bed. Maybe they'll put him under so they can have a peek at his guts. At least he'd get some sleep.  
  
They wheel him a short distance back up the hallway and then into a tight side corridor. The attendant maneuvers the wheelchair and then pulls him backward into a small dark room. As the guards' tasers come out again and the man moves to unstrap him from the chair, Waylon's heart begins to pound.   
  
Freed from the chair, Waylon watches the man back out of the room and close the door tight behind him, leaving Waylon in the pitch black. Before his eyes can adjust, the lights kick on.   
  
The room is small, painted a dark green, with a large set of double windows in the back wall. From where he's sitting, he can make out the top of a monitor on the other side. There are cameras in two corners, and two speakers high up near the ceiling, set flush in the wall. The room is divided in half by a piece of thick, reinforced glass, with an identical heavy door set into the same wall as his. The edges where the steel frame of the glass meets the wall are chipped, like someone recently installed it, but didn't take time to paint over the scuff marks of a hasty installation.  
  
The other half of the room is empty.  
  
Waylon, despite all of the self convincing he had done about humanity and empathy, begins to panic. Reason abandons him.  
  
"No-" He huffs as he scrambles up, almost losing his balance as he pushes off the wobbling chair, as the attendant forgot to lock the wheels. He stumbles to the door and rattles the handle. "No, no-"  
  
"Relax, Mr. Park," Dr. Clark's voice echoes in the tight room, tinny through the high speaker. He whirls and sees her speaking through a mic headset in the room beyond the window. With her are a giddy-looking Dr. Lin and a bespectacled round faced man he's never seen before, settling himself in front of the monitor. Dr. Lin seems more interested in the empty half of the room, while the man focuses on the screen and ignores him completely.  
  
"I believe Dr. Lin filled you in on the procedure. We'll keep this meeting short and sweet, so please don't get too worked up over it. It will go much easier if you try to remain calm."  
  
"This isn't an exposure therapy room," Waylon growls at her, yanking on the handle of the locked door to demonstrate his point. "This is a CELL."  
  
Dr. Clark's face is the most serious he's seen it. "Simply precautions for dangerous patients. I know this is hard on you, Waylon, but if you ever hope to recover-"  
  
He scrabbles at the frame of the door, his sweaty hands slipping on the metal. He cries frantically,"You don't care whether any of us get better or not! Why are you even pretending anymore?!"  
  
She firms her lips into a thin line, as if deliberating. When she opens her mouth to reply… that's when the other door clicks open.  
  
Waylon's head swivels through sheer instinct. His hospital shirt and pants are soaked with sweat, chilling him and intensifying the tremors in his limbs. He slides along the wall and behind the wheelchair, the only thing in the room that he can put between himself and the man they bring in.  
  
Eddie Gluskin is strapped into a similar chair, with an addition of an IV pole feeding a clear liquid into his left arm. A guard wheels him in while at least two others crowd the door with their tasers out, other hands on their pistols. The guard pushing him parks him in the middle of the room and then backs out as quickly as he can without tripping over his own boots. The door slams and locks.  
  
The Groom looks smaller here, in the chair and paper gown, but still clearly a sizable man: the gown only covers him to mid-thigh, and the sleeves are stretched tight over his biceps. The flesh that's exposed is covered with various scars and bruises, most obtained certainly before the Walrider Disaster, but clearly a few fresh ones as well. His undercut has grown out slightly, the hair on top unkempt and shaggy. His face is still roughly scarred, but appears to have healed considerably, making him, well… handsome. He's awake, his eyes still that bright blue, one and a half of them still red with blood, but his gaze is drifting, like he's having difficulty staying awake. Every few seconds, like a nervous tic, he flexes his arm with the needle in it. He's breathing deeply and slowly. His expression is blank. He's relaxed. A sedative in the IV, probably.   
  
He looks like a man. A man who has been through absolute shit, but a mortal flesh-and-blood man. Waylon feels a knot in his chest ease slightly, though he still can't bring himself to loosen his limbs from the position he's frozen himself in, pressed flat against the wall.  
  
Eddie's eyes turn toward him.   
  
Waylon feels his whole body respond to it when those eyes fix on his, like lightning. He stops breathing.  
  
Eddie looks at him for only a moment, and then looks away. He looks at the window where the doctors are watching them, and he smiles, wide and warm.  
  
"It's a bit early for therapy, isn't it, ladies?" he says, in that cool gentleman's voice that Waylon can't begin to forget.  
  
Dr. Lin grins back, her face flushed, and tugs on the mic on her own headset "Sorry, Eddie. This will be a short session, I promise."  
  
Dr. Clark frowns a little at the other woman, exasperated. Dr. Lin has a crush on him, Waylon realizes. There's a sour feeling in his stomach.  
  
Eddie continues to grin in that friendly, sleepy way as the two women trade some quick words off mic. The documents Waylon had read in Mount Massive had said he was charming, before he'd been in the Engine; a serial killer, still, but not the unconstrained monster so deep in delusion that he couldn't tell men from women and thought he was living in some idyllic nightmare before second wave feminism. This man seems to match the descriptions of the original Eddie; the man Waylon had left for dead in Mount Massive had barely seemed aware of his actual circumstances, but this man seems capable of recognition, conversation.  
  
The charm was probably his tactic for snaring his victims, before he was caught by police. As Waylon looks back and forth between the window and the Groom, he can't believe Dr. Lin can't see it for what it is.  
  
Unless that's not what it is, a voice in his head niggles. Maybe he's gotten _better_. Maybe he's just friendly.  
  
Bullshit, he tells the voice, setting his jaw and pushing off the wall slightly, pressing his toes against the cold floor, his limbs tight and prepared to run. There IS nowhere to run, but he's doing his best to ignore that fact.  
  
"Eddie," Dr. Lin continues. "This is Mr. Waylon Park. He was also in the hospital during the incident. We wanted to ask the both of you a series of questions."  
  
Eddie nods, but doesn't spare Waylon a glance, his eyes fixed forward, on Dr. Lin. He says, sweetly, "Of course, Darling."  
  
There's a lurch in Waylon's belly when he hears it. Fear, nausea, and that guilty spark of arousal. And something else. He fixes his eyes on the floor between him and the Groom, the divide of the glass, and focuses on breathing.  
  
She smiles wide. "Ahm… then first of all, Eddie, do you recognize Mr. Park?"  
  
Eddie shakes his head, and continues in that calm, measured voice, "Not at all. As I've told you previously, I only recall bits and pieces. The state of my mind during that time was, hm, quite _dire_ , I should say."  
  
Dr. Clark leans in over Dr. Lin's shoulder, planting a hand on the rim of the window, and says with authority, "Can you take a closer look at him before you answer for sure?"  
  
His expression tightens when she speaks, but it's gone in an instant. "Certainly, Darling."  
  
The man looks at him again, expression almost bored, even sweeping his eyes down his body before looking into his face again with that penetrative stare. Waylon meets his gaze, eyes wide and breathe trembling.   
  
Eddie looks away. "I've never seen him before."  
  
Waylon narrows his eyes. Anger cuts through his nerves, making his neck and face hot. This man who had hurt him, hunted him, hanged him… Didn't even remember him?  
  
"Do you feel anything when you look at him? Anything you can't explain?"  
  
The Groom shrugs, as well as he can with the straps tight around him. "It's no different from the others you've shown me." He looks at Waylon over his shoulder again, nose crinkling. "Disgust, perhaps, though it's not exactly inexplicable."  
  
Waylon prickles and scowls back at him.  
  
Dr. Clark sighs inaudibly. Dr. Lin shuffles through something on the unseen desk and then holds up a large photo. "How about this person?"  
  
Waylon shivers when he sees it. It's a photo of HIM. The photo he had on his ID card at Murkoff, smiling. It's like a different man. Evidently, Eddie thinks so too. "No, he doesn't look familiar either."  
  
She switches the photo for a second one. Waylon can't repress a full shudder this time. It's a screengrab pulled from some security footage in Mount Massive, during the disaster. It's his face again, dirty, bloody. Wildly afraid.  
  
Eddie frowns and shakes his head. "I'm so sorry, Darling, I don't know them at all. I do wish I could be more helpful."  
  
Waylon has to bite his tongue from screaming at him. It should be good that the Groom doesn't remember him. It means he won't remember what he DID to him, the way he left him in the gymnasium. And yet… This indifference is not what he expected.   
  
Dr. Clark shakes her head, clearly disappointed. Dr. Lin leans toward the glass. "It's okay, Eddie! This is about what we expected."  
  
The two doctors converse off mic again for a moment, while Waylon tries not to stare at the Groom, silently fuming. Rationally, he knows it's illogical, and yet, there's a part of him that's angry, so angry, that the man doesn't remember, that he can't or won't acknowledge what they had shared-  
  
Waylon looks up at Eddie the moment the other man's face lights up in a smile again, looking at the doctors, and the sick lurch is back. It comes to him suddenly.   
  
Jealousy.  
  
Those sweet words Eddie had shared with him, touching him, looking at him… It appealed so much to Waylon, in retrospect, that a secret part of him thought… He had thought it might happen again. And that twisted part of him had WANTED it. But Eddie won't even LOOK at him. He only wants to look at the women in the next room.  
  
He's angry at Eddie, and disgusted at himself, and he wants to fucking murder all of the doctors in this building, all of Murkoff, for making him into this. He's so caught up in it he almost misses Dr. Clark's words.  
  
"Waylon?" She says. "We already know, but just to confirm for our recordings: You recognize Eddie Gluskin, correct?"  
  
He looks at her as he gathers himself, then up at the camera. Of course. He nods.  
  
"Can you describe your experience with him? Briefly."  
  
As if he couldn't hate her more. Recounting his near mutilation and death in front of the man who did it to him… He's gathered that they're attempting to trigger something in the Groom, some recognition. He grits his teeth. He doesn't want to play their game anymore.  
  
"I-" his voice cracks. "I was there when they put him in the Engine."  
  
Both doctors frown at him. "Your later experiences-" Dr. Lin starts.  
  
"I was there when he was pleading with them to stop," he interrupts, voice rising. "I was there when those doctors shoved tubing down his throat. Ten minutes later I was being beaten and thrown into a cell for trying to stop it all from happening anymore."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Groom looking at him, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing. He doesn't take his eyes from Dr. Clark's. "Days later, they did the same thing to me."  
  
Dr. Clark levels a calculating look at him. "That's a start, I suppose." She bends to reach something on the desk, pulling up a file folder. "I know the rest is difficult for you to talk about. I have a rough account gathered from your footage, so how about I read it aloud for you?"  
  
He's a half second from hurling his wheelchair across the room when there's a polite, "Pardon me?"  
  
Waylon turns, but Eddie's looking at the doctors again, not at him. "I apologize, I know I keep asking, but I must insist… Have you found my wife yet?"  
  



	13. Chapter 13

"Have you found my wife yet?"  
  
Dr. Clark sighs. "Mr. Gluskin, we have talked about this."  
  
Dr. Lin pipes up, earning a disapproving look from her colleague, "We _are_ looking for her, Eddie. We'll tell you as soon as we find anything. But, for now-"  
  
"For now," Eddie sighs dramatically. "It's always, 'for now, let's focus on the questions, let's focus on the tests, let's focus on your recovery.' And yet you can still tell me nothing about what happened to her…"  
  
"You trust me, don't you, Eddie?" Dr. Lin gives him a pleading look. "I've always been honest with you. We are doing everything we can to find her. But we want to make sure you're well too."  
  
Waylon, who has been looking blankly between the parties since he'd heard the word "wife", sees the tic in Eddie's arm intensify. He swallows hard.  
  
Eddie smiles again, but there's a forced quality to it. "Then I must find her myself. I would like to check myself out of this facility at your earliest convenience."  
  
Both doctors reel back, obviously disappointed, though notably not surprised. This has happened before. Dr. Clark steps back then, pulling off her headset, and speaking to someone out of sight. It's the end of the session. A failure, he presumes.  
  
Dr. Lin leans forward again, sighing into the mic. "Okay, Eddie," she smiles, her tone practiced. "Let's get you back to your room and we can have a chat about it."  
  
Eddie's forearm flexes faster, extending to his finger tips where they touch the rim of the chair. Waylon sees. He hears the distant sound of boots in the hallway outside. Dr. Lin doesn't see. He could warn them.  
  
He doesn't.  
  
"You keep saying that. And then… I'm in here again." Eddie says, his voice low. His gaze on Dr. Lin is penetrating. Waylon grips the back of his wheelchair, still between him and the Groom. Dr. Lin's eyebrows furrow, perplexed.  
  
This part, Waylon realizes, is new for them. They got what they wanted after all. A reaction.  
  
He sees the moment when things go to shit. Dr. Clark is facing the back wall, talking into a cell phone. The man on the monitor is wrapping up, already leaning away. Dr. Lin is simply not experienced enough. And she has that stupid crush.  
  
The strap on Eddie's wrist breaks first, as he wrenches his IV arm suddenly upward. The momentum snaps the strap at his shoulders where it connects to the chair. "You fucking DOCTORS," he snarls, and there's the Groom, truly, that beastly rage. His free hand rips through the strap at his other wrist, yanking the needle from his arm in a sickening rip. "You act like you know EVERYTHING. But all you do is HURT PEOPLE!"  
  
The chair twists into scrap metal as he frees his bare feet, blood dribbling down his thick forearm. He picks it up one handed and flings it, IV and all, across the room, screaming, "WHERE IS SHE?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY **_WIFE_**?!"  
  
The chair crashes into the reinforced glass, rattling the frame. There is a puff of dust as the plaster gives way.  
  
Shitty fucking worksmanship, Waylon thinks, as the whole wall comes free from the floor and ceiling, and tilts at an angle down toward him.   
  
Dr. Clark is yelling red faced into her phone in the next room. Dr. Lin's face is white with shock. They're silent, the mics cut.  
  
There is a gap at the floor about a foot high when the screws on the frame catch in the plaster and hold. Eddie has stepped back from it as the bottom tips up toward him, but then he sees the gap at the same moment Waylon does. That dark gaze meets his.  
  
Waylon throws himself into a crouch behind his wheelchair just as the doors crash open, connecting with the metal frame, which has tilted just enough to hold them closed. Waylon catches himself thinking about why anyone would design a cell with doors that open inward, but then he remembers that this probably wasn't always a cell. The glass wall begins to skew weirdly as the jolt frees more screws, a strange geometry between him and violence. The Groom turns his attention to the guards trying to force the doors, and starts wailing again, "WHERE IS SHE?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HER?!" He grabs what's left of his chair and stalks to the window with the two doctors, and heaves it into the window.  
  
He smashes it twice more against the glass before a guard squeezes into the room. Eddie whirls on him just as he's hit with the taser. He stumbles, grunting. Then he powers forward, catching the guard's head in one large hand, and crushing it into the wall.  
  
Waylon sees the way the man's body sinks into limpness, his eyes going dull as the Groom drops him and the body slumps to the floor. One of his chatty guards, Waylon recognizes.  
  
A guard is pushing his way into Waylon's half of the room when he finally shakes himself free of the dead man's gaze. Waylon crawls forward toward the opening, eyes on the sharp frame shuddering above him. He catches sight of Eddie, another two guards tasing him and trying to bring him down. The stress on the frame finally takes its toll, and with an indescribable screech, the glass wall shatters. The shards rain down like snow behind him as Waylon pulls himself through the door.  
  
As he wedges himself through the narrow opening, he's grabbed immediately. They put him facedown in the hall and a guard holds him with a knee in his back. There's chaos at the open end of the hall, their only exit. The door is pried open and suddenly Eddie lunges out, bulldozing through them and smashing another guard against the far wall. Waylon realizes, with dawning horror, that there are only 3 men left.   
  
An alert starts, a siren sounding somewhere down the hall, a red light flashing. But it's a skeleton crew, Waylon remembers. These three men are all that's left on this floor. It's the middle of the night. There might not be anymore.   
  
The guard on his back stumbles to his feet as they watch the man Eddie bodyslammed go down, coughing blood. The three already have their tasers out, and they fire in quick succession. One set of electrodes catch on Eddie's neck this time. His body shudders. There's spittle and snot on his chin and shirt.  
  
Waylon realizes with a shock that he's crying.  
  
"Where is she…" he says, voice wet.  
  
Eddie punches the guard closest to him in the head, knocking him cold, and they both fall at once. Eddie goes to his knees and wheezes. The remaining two tackle him and yank his arms up, and then they're cuffed, and they drop him.   
  
Waylon hasn't moved from his belly on the floor, so his face is aligned with the Groom's as he presses his cheek to the floor, distorted in a grimace, body heaving.   
  
The two guards share a look, and then a boot connects hard with Eddie's face.   
  
"You fucking pyscho-" one guard growls through his teeth, lifting his leg to smash his heavy boot down on Eddie's shoulders.  
  
Eddie's nose is definitely broken. He heaves wetly against the floor. "W-where… is… she…"  
  
"She doesn't FUCKING EXIST!" The other guard snarls.  
  
The fresh bruises on Eddie's body make sense, suddenly. Another man might feel satisfaction at watching this, seeing this… DEVIL, curled up and beaten on the floor. Something inside of Waylon snaps at the sight. He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Hey-"  
  
They don't hear him, so he pushes up on his shaking limbs and staggers to his feet.   
  
"Stop!" he yells. Eddie cries out just then, an open-mouthed whimper of pain as he writhes his body, trying to turn away from the assault. The far guard looks up at Waylon, and opens his mouth to order him back to the floor. He's too late.  
  
Waylon reaches for the collar of the guard with his back to him. "Get OFF him!!" he bellows as his fingers connect with flesh.  
  
As he closes his hand around the guard's neck, it just… comes apart.  
  
Waylon staggers back, the man's head toppling off his shoulders at an angle, blood streaking Waylon's slim arm. There are shreds of muscle and skin between his fingers. It had felt like… ground beef. He had closed his hand and his fingers had dug in and snapped the man's head clean from his shoulders.  
  
"What the fuck, what the fuck-" Waylon's ass hits the floor as he pushes himself away from the body that's toppled over in front of him. His bloody hand slips on the smooth floor. The man's heart is still beating, pumping blood into a pool under his body.  
  
The other guard is fumbling for his pistol when Eddie rolls onto his side and shoves a heel into his pelvis, cracking him sharply against the wall. Waylon isn't sure if the man faints or dies. He doesn't care, because he just tore a person apart with one bare hand, and now he's alone in the hall with the Groom.  
  
As the shock begins to make him lightheaded, he looks over to the other man's face. And he freezes.  
  
Eddie is staring at him in open-mouthed _wonder_.  
  
His nose is bloody and cracked high on the bridge, both eye sockets blackening already from the force of the kick, but his eyes are wide in unmistakable recognition. He heaves a breath between his bloody teeth as his mouth stretches into a terrifying grin.  
  
" _There_ you are, Darling," he purrs weakly, voice somehow so sweet and lilting despite the damage to his face. "I knew I'd find you again… my dear wife…"  
  
Then Eddie's eyes roll back, and he faints.   
  
The siren's still flashing red above them, but the hall is otherwise silent, except for the labored breathing of those left alive. Waylon looks at the guard he decapitated, at the gun in its holster within arm's reach. Then he sees the keycard, clipped to his belt.  
  
The following moments are fragmented. He has it in his hand, the thick plastic of it biting his palm. The floor is on lockdown, the halls empty, all of the guards lying in the alcove behind him, unconscious, dead or dying. He pushes the card against the security scanner in the elevator, and punches the button for the first floor. His bare feet leave a trail of blood, slipping on the slick floor, then sticking as the blood quickly clots and grows tacky. The first floor is dark, pre-dawn white winter light coming in off the snow through the wall-to-wall windows. He staggers through a nice waiting room, clean and clean-smelling, with nicely stacked magazines, the reception desk wide and empty, the room unused. They don't have security lights on this level, nothing at all in place to contain what's on the floors above him, to contain HIM, and he pushes easily through the glass doors onto the shoveled path that leads to a small parking garage, and beyond, the gate out.  
  
Two guards stumble from the watch booth at the gate as he approaches it at a stagger, their eyes wide with fear. They take in the look of him, his patient garb, bare feet, and the blood. They have their tasers out before he's close enough to consider whether he should try to kill them.  
  
The bite of the electricity is almost a relief. He knows what he would have decided.


	14. Chapter 14

Waylon dreams.  
  
There's a wide open black space around him, and he can hear the screams and moans of the patients in Blue Garden, and the ones from Mount Massive who didn't make it. Lisa is with him, her hand tight on his arm, but her light is out. His eyes don't work. He can't see her.  
  
"You need to get out, Waylon," she says, voice cracking and shaking in the dark.  
  
Then he feels a grip on his other arm, stronger and larger. The warmth of another body mirrors Lisa's at his left shoulder. He shudders.  
  
"We need to get out, Darling."  
  
Waylon opens his eyes.  
  
It's still dark in the small hospital room, but there is dim light streaming in from the cracked door, streaking the ceiling. He doesn't move yet, body still lax and comfortable from sleep, brain still trying to reconstruct the events that lead him here. And even as he does, he lays still, and deliberately stifles the panic. It's a different room, wider, with a curtain dividing it, but the same paint, the same equipment he remembers from when he first woke up in Blue Garden. The comfort of sleep fades, leaving him cold and trembly inside, his skin prickling.  
  
He tests his arms first, and finds they are most definitely bound to the bed. There's an IV in his arm again, pumping clear fluid into his bloodstream. He rolls his head and shifts his body weight and feels the press of one over his chest and belly, and then his legs. His feet are bound splayed, one to each corner of the bed. The bed gives a quiet creak as he tests them.  
  
"Are you awake then?" he hears, from within the room, startling a breath out of him. He cranes his neck as far as he can and finally sees her. Dr. Clark is curled into one of the plastic visitation chairs in the corner of the room, shadowed from the light of the hallway. As he sees her, she rises, and carries her chair up to the side of the bed, where she plunks it down and sits, sighing heavily.  
  
She looks worn and exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, her modest makeup worn away. She's wearing the same clothes she'd had on in the exposure room. She sits with a hunch to her shoulders. She sees him looking, and she smiles. "We both had a bit of a rough night, huh?"  
  
Waylon scowls. "It's almost like performing illegal and immoral human experimentation is kinda hard or something."  
  
She snorts at first, smiling, but then lets it fall away. Her eyes are distant.  
  
"I didn't know it was like that," she says.  
  
Waylon scoffs in disbelief, "You saw the footage-"  
  
"We believed the Engine was causing it. That, removed from its proximity, people would get better."  
  
"They're still mentally ill, Dr. Clark. Eddie Gluskin was still a serial killer before the Engine."  
  
She bites her lip, looking distant, for a long moment. "All of the processes of our bodies and brains are biological. They're based in bone and nerve and tissue. Even things like psychological trauma, like the kind you experienced at Mount Massive, and the kind Eddie Gluskin experienced as a child. It's a looping pathway in the meat of the brain that triggers the panic attacks, the violence…"  
  
She pauses, and Waylon surreptitiously tests the straps on his wrists again, remembering the guard in the hallway. He thinks about the difference between the nylon strap and the ligaments of a man's spine.  
  
She continues, moving her hands in excited little gestures. "It lead me to think, what if there are physical ways to heal trauma? What if, whatever's affecting you and the other patients, healing your wounds, were also capable of healing your brains? A sociopath can never learn empathy, according to our modern understanding. But what if they COULD? What if whatever technology-"  
  
"We're still scarred," Waylon points out. "It doesn't heal scars."  
  
She frowns. "Trauma is a scar on the brain. The tissues reforming themselves to make a way forward for an animal who can't process the present circumstances. We hoped that reopening the pathways…" She trails off, and sighs.  
  
"I know you're not here to make anyone better," Waylon says.  
  
"I told you before that we're not like the men at Mount Massive, Waylon," she replies, meeting his eyes, the intensity in that look chilling him. "I suspect Dr. Basu told you otherwise before he was suspended. But he didn't understand either. You, all of you… None of you should be alive, after what you experienced. And when we push, you bounce back stronger. How will we understand the limits if we don't continue to push-"  
  
"Has anyone died yet?" Waylon asks.  
  
Her mouth tightens. "Besides the guards Gluskin killed? No. None of the patients have died."  
  
"Despite your best efforts, I bet."  
  
She smiles at him, genuinely. "You have a mouth on you, huh? You must've been a funny guy, before Murkoff."  
  
Waylon frowns, the wave of memory bringing a tremor into his body. "Not especially. I was more into dad jokes, before Murkoff."  
  
Dr. Clark's smile drifts away again. They sit in silence for a few minutes, breathing into the quiet, Dr. Clark's quiet and measured, Waylon's shallow and trembling.  
  
"I knew Eddie Gluskin was manipulative," she starts. "Old documents showed that, and it was clearly observed in the difference between the way he treated me and Dr. Lin. But he was responsive, lucid, aware. He was engaging in therapy. He was even able to admit he had killed people, which is more than what they accomplished at Mount Massive. He demonstrated at least a growing awareness in every aspect… except when he talked about his 'wife'."  
  
Waylon tugs on the wristbands again, the quiet creak drowned out by her dialogue.  
  
"There were no records of a wife. We questioned him on the timeline, and realized it was a residual part of his delusions from Mount Massive. He was becoming increasingly insistent, and increasingly difficult to work with. And so we introduced other patients who had encountered him, to see if there was recognition. You were our top pick, but you were still healing, so we held out and tried others. We hoped… if he just picked someone, lay the delusion over them, at least then, we could move forward-"  
  
"Move forward with your testing."  
  
"I know it's cruel," she answers. "But our only other option is to call it hopeless. And then Murkoff would simply kill him. One of our best resources for understanding the effects of this thing, just, poof." She makes a gesture with her fingers, and then lets her hands drift to her lap. "I know after what he's done to you, whether he lives or dies might not matter to you. But if there's one thing I know about you, Waylon Park, it's that you're an empathetic person. You'd rather save someone than hurt them."  
  
"You don't care about saving anyone," he bites. "You care about losing assets."  
  
She grips the sideboard of his bed. "Gluskin killed 3 guards and knocked the rest unconscious. And yet, somehow, YOU walked away. That mess of human carnage upstairs, and you took a keycard and you walked right out the front door. How did that happen?"  
  
He furrows his eyebrows. "Did something happen to your security footage?"  
  
Her knuckles are white. "To be frank, there's a blind spot. The cameras in the rooms recorded the initial activity, and the main hall cameras have the guards running in, and then you, walking out. Only one of our men has woken up, and he barely remembers it. The rest are still unconscious and critical." She leans in. "Gluskin was a known danger, but as long as we proved we were getting results, Murkoff allowed us to keep him. Now he's demolished a quarter of our security team and we have no evidence of progress to show for it."  
  
Waylon's breath hitches again as she leans in closer. "So if he let you go… If there was a reason that he did that, we need to know."  
  
If Waylon pulled his hand free, he could grab her. He thinks about the muscle of the guard's neck. Bile rises in his throat, and he swallows hard.  
  
There was a blind spot. Which means, they don't know what he did, what he can do. At least, until some Murkoff forensic technician realizes that the decapitated guard's wounds were caused by a hand about half as large as the Groom's. But until then, there's time. He doesn't even know if he could still do it, or if it was a spur of the moment thing, or if it was even his doing. The way he came apart wasn't dissimilar to some of the deaths caused by the Walrider in Mount Massive. Of course, thinking of that thing, somehow following them here…  
  
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to collect himself. "He passed out. He came out of the room, and took out two of them. The other two had their tasers on him, but he, uh… He decapitated one, and the other one, he kicked him into the wall. Then he passed out. I was in the corner, I think he just didn't see me."  
  
He licks his dry lips as she leans back. "That's it? He didn't see you?"  
  
"It happened so fast," he huffs.  
  
She looks up at the ceiling, clearly disappointed.  
  
As she does, he hears a voice in his head, just a whisper. They'll kill him, it says. It sounds suspiciously like Lisa. Waylon presses his eyes closed, hard, biting down on his tongue.  
  
"He might have seen me. He said something, but I didn't hear it." He grits out.  
  
She perks instantly. "Said something?"  
  
He shakes his head, or as best as he can with the bindings holding him tight into the pillow. "It was soft, I couldn't say. I don't know." He sighs heavily. He wishes he were a more selfish person. "If you… If you let me see him again, that would answer your questions, wouldn't it?"  
  
A familiar smirk crosses her face. He rolls his eyes. "Oh. You were going to do that anyway."  
  
"Knowing that something happened still puts us in a better position. We can't arrange another meeting until this evening, and Murkoff's asking for termination as early as tomorrow morning." Waylon's gut lurches at that. "This should buy us time."  
  
She stands and paces. "Waylon. If this… crazy bastard really thinks you're his wife, we can use that to control him. He's one of the few patients so far who displays an outward lasting physical effect of the Engine, and he has the second highest level of clouding when we run him through the machines. If you're able to help us control him, your value goes through the roof."  
  
"Is this a pep talk?" he mutters, staring at the ceiling. "Do I have to be tied down for this?"  
  
Dr. Clark grins. "Well, you did try to escape." She leans over and presses the nurse call button. "But I don't see the harm in it."  
  
A nurse arrives, one he doesn't recognize, and slowly they unbind him from the bed. Upper half freed, he notices Dr. Clark keeping her distance again.   
  
As the nurse frees his feet and he pulls himself up into a sitting position, he notices a weight around his ankle. There's a black band just above the jut of bone at the joint, attached to a small black box. An ankle monitor.  
  
Dr. Clark shrugs. "Sorry about that. We just got them in this morning, and with our reduced security staff, and the fact that you've tried to escape once, it seemed necessary." She smiles thinly. "Bet you wish we'd had them earlier so we didn't have to escort you everywhere, huh? A little more private. Consider it a perk for you helping us out."  
  
He gives her a flat look. He's not going to thank her for what is, essentially, a collar. He tugs the blankets in close. His clothes have been changed, back to the standard hospital gown, and he feels vulnerable.   
  
After the nurse has checked his vitals and left, Dr. Clark folds her arms, standing at the foot of his bed. She nods in the direction of the monitor. "It also contains a couple of electrodes which can deliver a shock about triple the voltage of the one you got from those tasers early this morning. To be clear, that's a fatal voltage. It's automatic if you attempt to leave the grounds, but can also be activated at any time. We're allowing you to continue having free reign of the lower floors of the facility, despite your escape attempt, so we're hoping this will encourage you to stay in line this time."  
  
Waylon watches her wide-eyed, trying to contain the turmoil inside, trying to ignore the pinching, burning sensation of the cuff around his leg.  
  
Because now he is definitely and completely fucked.  
  
She smiles again. "I'd appreciate it if you met us in the lobby on the residence floor at 7 sharp. If not, we'll have to send some people after you. I'll send a nurse in to remove your IV once your saline bag empties. Try to take it easy until then, hm?"  
  
Her heels click sharply as she leaves the room. Finally, he's alone.  
  
He quickly, and briefly, has a panic attack. He bends over the sideboard of his bed and vomits, mostly bile, onto the hospital floor. He heaves a few deep breathes, trying to calm his body, to calm the wiring in his brain screaming at him.   
  
But then, the ankle monitor and the threats from Murkoff and the man's neck in his hand all fade away. And he remembers Eddie Gluskin looking up at him like he's something wonderful.  
  
The feeling is _marvelous_. A furious and hungry part of him wants it _back_.  
  
"Well, that's pretty rough," a voice says, quiet but extremely close. Waylon startles violently, pushing back and almost toppling out of the bed.  
  
The curtain dividing the room is being held aside by a man lying in an identical bed, only feet away. His face is scruffy and his dark hair is wild and unwashed. He's shirtless, blanket drawn up to his waist, and almost gaunt, his ribs pressing outward from his skin. Despite this, he still appears bigger and broader than Waylon, which he notes with unease. It takes him a moment, but Waylon recognizes him. He was one of the men upstairs, with the patients they considered violent. The man who had yelled at them from behind the glass, who looked like he didn't belong there. Up close, the man's skin is grayed and washed out, eyes sunken. Like a dead man.  
  
As Waylon's eyes widen in recognition, the man gives him a half smirk, and waggles his arm with his own IV and heart monitor. "Relax. I'm not gonna come over there and murder you. They're pumping like six different sedatives into me right now to keep me asleep, I'd prefer to keep them thinking it's working."  
  
He hitches the curtain just slightly so it hangs open between them, eyeballing the open door. "I remember you from upstairs, in the wheelchair, right? I've heard rumors from the other guys, when they're lucid, you know. They said you worked for Murkoff."  
  
Waylon nods slowly, settling himself against the far sideboard of his bed, watching the man warily. "I don't anymore. Obviously."  
  
The man pushes, "Why not?"  
  
Waylon gulps. "I tried to leak it to the press. What was happening there."  
  
The man stares at him, and then his eyes widen, almost comically. "You?! You sent the email? You're the Whistleblower?"  
  
Waylon shakes his head, perplexed. "How do you know about…"  
  
The man grins weakly, and then raises his hand and flips him off. His index finger is missing.  
  
"Because I'm the guy you fuckin' emailed. And fuck you _completely_ for bring me into this shit."


	15. Chapter 15

"Miles Upshur? The reporter?!" Waylon hisses, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the door and trying to keep his voice low. "What are you doing here?!"  
  
Miles is already gesturing frantically for him to be quiet. "Shshhh! They don't know who I am! They think I'm some guy named Frank, he was a patient there-"  
  
"Frank Manera?!" Waylon's voice rises again.  
  
Miles reaches across the space separating them and slaps a hand over Waylon's mouth. It's so surprising that Waylon completely forgets to flinch away from it. Miles' eyes dart about the room, wild and wide in his hairy face.  
  
"They could be monitoring us," Miles says. "The room, that thing around your ankle, fuck, they could've surgically implanted bugs in both of us by now with how much they've been putting us under."  
  
Waylon quirks an eyebrow, pushing the man’s hand away. "Even the security at Mount Massive wasn't that tight. I think if they had cast that kind of net over us then things would've played out pretty differently before now. Besides, this box doesn't even have any ventilation slots, if there were a bug in it they wouldn't be able to pick anything up..."  
  
Miles gives him a withering look. Waylon sighs shakily and tucks his feet under the blanket, smothering the monitor, and leans closer.   
  
"Why do they think you're Frank Manera?"  
  
Miles sighs, waving a hand over his face. "Because I look like shit and he probably looked like shit, and I think they just really, really wanted to find the guy. And when I realized it I didn't discourage it, because if they knew I was a fucking reporter then I don't even wanna imagine what they'd do."  
  
There's a hundred thoughts rushing through Waylon's head at once. Dr. Basu hadn't mentioned Frank when Waylon asked who else had survived; Frank was a fairly prominent part of his experience, and surely not so easy to forget. Dr. Lin had specifically mentioned Frank in their session, but there was no mention of getting them to meet up in the same way that they were pushing him at Eddie. Maybe it was because Eddie was a particular problem while "Frank" was not. Maybe it had to do with his non-reaction at encountering him upstairs; if it had really been Manera in that room next to Eddie Gluskin's, Waylon would have flipped his lid before getting within eyesight of Gluskin. He recalls the look that Dr. Clark gave him when he asked about him, and he has a whispering suspicion that Dr. Clark probably knows they don't have the cannibal, after that. But then, why would they be keeping Upshur around? Waylon swallows hard and tries to focus, putting those questions aside for now. "So you were at the asylum? When?"  
  
Miles glares at him. "During THE SHIT, Park. You know, when the fucking GHOST started turning people into spaghetti and everyone in there lost their fucking minds? I snuck in to get some footage but then I couldn't get OUT." He huffs, and his gaze goes distant, fixed somewhere near the door. "I don't even remember getting out. It was all completely batshit and then, I'm waking up naked in the woods halfway down the mountain with ten dudes pointing assault rifles at me. And they're all scared to _death_ of me."  
  
A shuffle in the hall startles them both, Miles grabbing for the curtain. A nurse passes and enters a room down the hall, soft shoes squeaking on the tile floor, and then it all goes quiet again. They breathe a sigh of relief in unison.  
  
"Look," Miles continued. "You said you were in software, right? I read a lot of documents about those fucked up experiments, a lot of stuff I'm still processing, a lot of stuff I'm still having difficulty with. What the fuck were they trying to do there?!"  
  
Waylon sighs. "I wasn't part of the core team. I saw programming, mostly, and once they locked me up they didn't exactly lay out their grand plans for me. I didn't learn a lot of it until I found some of their research, when I was trying to get out." He pauses, gathering himself. "Essentially, it seems like they were developing nanotechnology with the intent to weaponize it."  
  
"They thought there was something in the mountain," Miles growls with emphasis. "Something from a goddamn _fairytale_."  
  
"A mass delusion, effects of the nanotech, probably," Waylon sighs. Just having this conversation, he's beginning to feel more level headed than he has in weeks. Reducing the horror of that place to simple botched science is having more of a calming effect than he would have anticipated. "My guess is those things were everywhere in the facility, they were all over everybody. I think they got into people's heads. Murkoff was trying to develop people who could control them, and they needed human minds molded into a certain shape to fit into the pilot's seat."  
  
"So that's what the Walrider is?" Miles asks. "A bunch of microscopic machines?"  
  
Waylon nods.   
  
Miles sighs heavily and thumps his head into his pillow, staring at the ceiling. "So what was the Engine, exactly? Like a dock to plug people into? Or more like the hub of the hivemind?"  
  
Waylon shrugs. "It was Nazi tech, I don't think even Murkoff had a full understanding of it."  
  
Miles pops up on his elbow again, expression intense. "Why would the nanites still be working? The doctors here keep talking about 'clouding'; that's the nanites, right? They're still functional, and they're still doing _something_. With no hub, no control, no energy source."  
  
A chill crawls up Waylon's spine. "I haven't really thought about it-"  
  
"Well think about it," Miles snaps. "Because with those bugs still crawling around on us? We're staring down the barrel at another 'incident.'"  
  
Waylon shivers. He thinks about the guard's head coming off his body, the meat in his hand. He'd been so afraid of the patients snapping and causing another bloodbath. But it hadn't even been them in the first place. It had always been the nanotech. He shakes his head roughly. "No, no. For the Walrider to coalesce, there'd have to be billions and billions of them. Even if they hitched a ride on us here and there, there's no way enough made it here to cause that kind of disaster. And there's no Engine to connect them, so there's no way to access them and trigger an event..." He trails off. Miles is looking at him meaningfully.  
  
"You don't know for sure," he says.  
  
"None of us knows," Waylon admits, wiping sweat from his face with a clammy hand. "That's what all of this is about."  
  
Miles settles back into his pillow again, face ashen. Waylon glances up at his saline pack, nearly empty.   
  
"I have a plan," he breathes.  
  
Miles turns his head and narrows his eyes. Waylon leans in close.  
  
"These people have no idea what they're doing," he whispers, the thoughts emerging suddenly and with startling clarity, spilling out of him almost uncontrollably now that he's found someone to share them with. "Their security is barebones, they're losing staff, half of them are scared to death of what they've seen and heard about Mount Massive, and the other half don't believe it. This is not Mount Massive, it's not Murkoff. This is an unstable environment."  
  
He grits his teeth, glancing at the door again, the quiet hallway beyond. "So we start another riot. They don't have enough people to handle what these men are capable of. Get a keycard, collect evidence, and take a car. I made it downstairs and out the front door, I was too disoriented to make it further than that, but it was _easy_."  
  
Miles is looking at him distrustfully. "That's not a plan. That's a vague concept. I was kinda hoping for a Shawshank Redemption kind of thing here."  
  
Waylon grimaces. "Look, I was a software engineer, not-"  
  
Miles waves a hand dismissively. "Yeah, I get it, none of us were made for this, we've all got ten new kinds of mental disorders as a result of that place, and we're all full of nanobugs that could shred us like wet tissue paper at any second. Not exactly an ideal environment for planning a great escape." He points a finger at Waylon. "But now at least there's two of us, right? If you come up with a real escape plan, I'm on board. So don't go leaving me locked up in here."  
  
Waylon swallows hard and nods. "Of course."  
  
Miles grunts and drops his hand back to the mattress. "Good. Now, these sedatives are making me crave a nap, and we don't wanna get caught talking to each other. I suggest you try to get some shut eye while you can."  
  
Waylon sighs and reaches out to tug the curtain back into place. "It was nice talking to someone," he admits.   
  
Miles blinks at him as the curtain closes. "Yeah," he replies quietly.  
  
Waylon settles back against the mattress and watches the last of the fluid drain into his arm, spinning this new information over in his mind. His plan is garbage, even more so with the ankle monitor that will knock him out, if not kill him, if they try to mount an escape. And now even more so with this man, a man who he basically invited into this whole mess. For a moment he lets himself be selfish and envision escaping without him, but then he slumps. He knows himself better than that.   
  
Maybe if he thought about it differently, he thinks. If these things weren't obstacles, but assets. The monitor, well... that's a different sort of problem. But the men... Miles seems to be a fixture on the upper floors, and with his immunity to sedatives, maybe he can be their link to either weapons or data. Dennis, if he ever reemerges from the upper floors, seems to have the main bulk of the patients behind him. Gluskin is just raw power; even if he's still wrapped up in his Groom delusions, he has to at least hate the doctors as much as anyone else.  
  
Dr. Clark wants him to get close to Gluskin, either as a friend, or a toy, he's still unsure about that. But they want him close so they can manipulate the man more easily, keep him agreeable for their tests. But it also gives Waylon the opportunity to forge an ally.   
  
A nurse comes in just as Waylon is debating whether he should attempt the restroom, and frees him from the needle and patches along his chest. She peeks past the curtain for a second, and then gestures for Waylon to follow her, holding out an arm to steady him. He doesn't need it, and walks from the room easily. He slips into thought for a moment; more than likely, his healing, and overall wellness, is due to the presence of the nanites from Mount Massive. Why they seem to be helping rather than hindering is a mystery.   
  
A new behavior in a machine. Most likely programmed, but, it could also be learned. There were mentions of sentience in the documents that Waylon read during his escape. The idea is exhilarating and wholly terrifying.  
  
Waylon notes there are no guards near the door, and despite the pinch on his ankle, it's still like a breath of fresh air. She brings him to a small check up room with a pile of clothes from his room on the bed, and runs him through a basic checkup, and explains quickly some changes in his medication. Then she leaves him in the room to dress.  
  
As Waylon pulls off the papery hospital gown, he surveys the small room. It's tremendously normal. There's even a big acrylic jar of cotton balls on the counter. It looks like the office where he took his sons for checkups, but without the medical posters on the walls. And the big bowl of lollypops.  
  
It clicks in his brain like an electrical shock. He pulls on his pants and quickly pulls open the nearest drawer. He rifles through the drawers and small overhead cabinet until he finds what he wants most: sterilized hypodermic needles. He takes a small handful and tucks them deep into his pants pocket. He also swipes some latex gloves and gauze, and half a bottle of aspirin; he pours the pills loose into the pocket of his sweater so that the rattling of the bottle won't give him away. In the back of drawer, he finds a small pair of scissors, which he tucks crossways into the front of his underwear just above his dick. The irony of it isn't lost on him, and he grimaces as he straightens his clothes.   
  
As he fixes the drawers, he spots a few small tubes of medical lubricant. He frowns, at himself, mostly, for the first thought that comes into his mind, and then he puts one of them into the toe of his slipper. He'd prefer not to masturbate with shampoo anymore. And he does plan to masturbate, as soon as possible, while thinking about stupid Eddie Gluskin and his stupid reverent expression...  
  
Before he can continue that line of thought, or get too neurotic about getting caught, he clicks the door open and meets the nurse waiting for him. She smiles, none the wiser, and walks him to the end of the hall. A guard gives him a wary look and takes him to the elevator; the armed man pushes the button for him and then sends him down, alone.   
  
Waylon makes his way back to his room on shaky legs, the illusion of freedom of not being followed exhilarating. There are no patients about; when he arrives at his room and presses the door closed behind him, his clock reads just about lunchtime. He checks all the nooks and crannies of his room first, making certain they're free of spying equipment, and then slips the stolen items from his pockets into his pillowcase, resolving to sweep his room for a better hiding place once he's calmed down.  
  
Alone in his room, he lies back on the bed for a moment, closing his eyes. Unpacking the previous night is a task he doesn't feel quite up to, but the encounter upstairs is easier. He has a moment of panic, thinking about how he so easily slipped into trusting the man who he couldn't even be certain was _really_ Miles Upshur. Murkoff knew about the email after all, more than likely knew who it was for. Setting up a spy within the hospital to befriend and monitor him... It's essentially what they have him doing here, with Gluskin.   
  
Waylon shakes his head, thinking about their conversation, the haggard state of the man, his missing fingers (still red and raw from healing). Nothing sticks out as a red flag, easing his mind a bit. He resolves to be more wary of him, but for the moment, doesn't find any reason not to trust what he says.  
  
Waylon intends to rest for only a moment while he processes his thoughts. He falls asleep and dreams that he's trying to send an email.


	16. Chapter 16

A tentative knock wakes him, and Waylon's eyes flash to the clock. It's only been two hours, the sky outside still bright white with winter clouds. He listens carefully for a moment, wondering if he dreamed it, but the knock comes again, shyer this time.   
  
Waylon rolls out of bed, giving his pillow a nervous glance, before tucking it more deeply under his blankets. Then he cautiously clicks open the door.  
  
Just outside, a very exhausted and somewhat bedraggled Dennis is waiting for him.  
  
"You made it back," Waylon murmured, eyes darting about the otherwise empty hall.   
  
Dennis nods. He looks terrible, hunched in on himself, thick arms wrapped around his midsection. There are red puncture wounds on the upper side of one arm, and his wrists are raw and red, most likely from restraints. "I need to talk to you," he says in a weak voice.  
  
Waylon cringes internally for a moment at the thought of inviting him in. Despite his revelations about the role of the nanomachines in the Walrider incident, his wariness of the patients is still hard to shake. It was still this man, after all, this man's body and voice and face, who drove him down the stairs.  
  
He pushes out into the hall, backing Dennis up a few feet by proximity, and closes his door behind him. Glancing down the length of the hall and finding it still empty, he steps back into the alcove at the end of the hall and leans against the white frosted window. Dennis takes the hint and mirrors him.  
  
"They took me upstairs," Dennis starts in a thin, shaky voice. "There's men up there that... I don't remember everything clear, like, from _before_ , but there was a man who I was afraid of, they... They drugged me and put me in this room and he was there, he..." He trails off.  
  
"Eddie Gluskin? The Groom?" Waylon offers, realization dawning. They must've tried putting Dennis in the divided room the night before they tried Waylon.  
  
Dennis starts trembling and sweating, worse than before. "That's it," he says. "That's the name." Suddenly his hand shoots out and latches onto Waylon's arm; Waylon flinches and his shoulders hit the window hard as Dennis leans in over him. "I'm warnin' you, that they gonna put you in there too, everyone that Gluskin saw, they wanna, they..."  
  
Waylon, shivering and trying to control his breathing, gently pats Dennis' hand. "They already did, Dennis. Last night."  
  
Dennis reels back, his face going white. His hand slackens and drops. Waylon takes the opportunity to ease out from between Dennis and the window, so he's not quite as cornered.  
  
"I'm sorry," Dennis breathes. "They kept me for more tests, after, so I couldn't get back... They just let me out, I thought..."  
  
"It's okay," Waylon says, forcing a small smile. "I appreciate it."  
  
Dennis gives him a wild eyed look. "I was so scared he would remember me, that he'd be angry. When they... Did he know you?"  
  
Waylon bites his lip. "Not exactly."  
  
Dennis sighs, relief palpable. "If he don't know it was us in there then maybe, maybe he won't come after us if they let him out-"  
  
"What? Let him out?" Waylon interrupts, startled.  
  
The big man nods. "I heard 'em in the hospital upstairs, when they was givin' me shots. They said they wanna let him come downstairs if they can find somethin' to keep him calm. Somethin' about like, gettin' the reaction they wanted-"  
  
That crawling feeling comes up from Waylon's belly again, up into his chest, constricting. "This was yesterday, right? Not today." It couldn't have been today. Not after what they'd seen Gluskin do to the guards.  
  
Dennis shakes his head. "Today, not an hour ago. I came straight here when they sent me down."  
  
Waylon grits his teeth, trembling, staring into the white pane of the window. Crazy monsters, he thinks. The staff in this place are crazy fucking monsters. Controlled environments are one thing. The sick part of Waylon is even anticipating the meeting tonight. But out here, free roaming? They are either completely delusional about the level of control they have in here, or, they really do want a blood bath. Knowing Dr. Clark, Waylon suspects it might be both.  
  
Waylon realizes Dennis is still talking. "-ight be okay. He didn't recognize us, we just gotta stay out of his way."  
  
Waylon grits his teeth harder. His jaw creaks. Later, he thinks. He'll deal with it when, if, it comes to that. "Dennis, you said they were performing tests on you. What kind of tests?"  
  
The patient is taken off guard by the question, clearly more focused on the subject of the Groom. "Um. They took blood, scanned me in a big loud machine. We played this, like, guessing game, with cards. Don't know what they were lookin' for." He smiles with half of his mouth, shakily. "Not as bad as the tests in the other place."  
  
Waylon shivers. "Yeah. When they put you in the machine, did you hear them mention 'clouding?'"  
  
Dennis nods. "They talked about it a lot. Said it was like..." He points at his own face and waggles his hand in a rough figure eight. "Around my head. You know what that means?"  
  
Waylon frowns, then leans in a little closer. "Dennis... Is there something... different, about you, now? Something that you can do, that you couldn't before?"  
  
His eyes dart back and forth nervously.  
  
"You can trust me," Waylon urges.  
  
Dennis frowns deeply. "There's the noises."  
  
"Noises?"  
  
The patient nods, continuing in a whisper. "I... I can hear a lot. More than I used to. Hearing was fine before, but now it's like..." He scratches at his cheek distractedly. "Those people talkin' about the Groom, you know, they was in another room. Could hear 'em like they was right beside me. I kept thinking they was new voices. But it was just people in other rooms. People I don’t think I should be able to hear.“  
  
Waylon slumps back against the window again, breathless. Murkoff staff named them 'variants' because they no longer considered the altered and deformed patients 'human.' The term takes on a new significance, now.  
  
Dennis continues. "I been hidin' it from the doctors. Since, you know, I figure they'd try stoppin' it. And I, I know it's not normal, but... I like to be able to hear. Could hear 'em coming, hear what they're planning to do. Makes me less afraid." He sighs, as if a weight lifted from him. "You think I should tell them?"  
  
"No," Waylon responds quickly. "Hide it. You're right, if they knew, who knows what they'd do. Keep listening. What you've heard so far, it's really useful information."  
  
Dennis puffs his chest a little, reminding Waylon of how big the man actually is. Not as big as Gluskin, but big enough. Not a bad guy to have on your side in a fight. Waylon glances down the empty hall again. "You hungry?"  
  
Dennis grins. "Starvin'."  
  
Waylon collects his slippers from where he left them beside his bed, and they head to the cafeteria. It's late afternoon, so there are only sandwiches out again, but as they approach, the worker behind the counter pops open a few warming trays and lets them know they're free to start dinner early. Waylon thanks the worker politely as Dennis excitedly digs into a tray of mashed potatoes.  
  
Dennis continues to chat lightly, mostly about his sister and her family. Waylon listens quietly to the man's country drawl, watching his face light up when he talks about his nephew. He listens quietly and tries to soothe the wriggling feeling in his gut. The simultaneous dreadful nervousness and keen anticipation. What's wrong with me, he thinks, as he imagines Eddie's expression again. He digs down deep in himself, calling for Lisa's voice to reassure him, to remind him that it was just a kink that took on a life of its own in that place, that there's nothing truly wrong with him.  
  
Lisa's voice has been conspicuously quiet for a long time.  
  
More men trickle in as 6 o'clock approaches, some of them wandering over to pat Dennis on the back and congratulate him on his 'escape.' As they collect their trays, they gather around him at the table, and subsequently, around Waylon. A few show some slight unease at his presence, but shake themselves of it quickly as a patient with a cleft lip and missing eye begins to recount all of the activities that Dennis missed in the past two days. Waylon doesn't miss how the man slips in mentions of the activities of the doctors and guards. The guards are sparse, and more on edge. Dr. Lin was in exceptionally good spirits the day before, but then cancelled her appointments for today. The orderlies and lower level staff seem mostly oblivious. Apparently, Mr. Boer is in open rebellion to Dr. Clark's strict policies and giving everyone porno magazines. Waylon doubts this, and says as much, and then one of the men flashes a folded page of a magazine at him, a naked women with her legs wide, displaying her cosmetically perfect, pink vagina. Half of the men at the table go bright red, and the other half bust out laughing. Waylon surprises himself, and does both. It feels like a release, almost orgasmic, laughing together with these people. He forgets, for a short while, what time it is.  
  
After dinner, the men head together back to the common area, the whole batch of them squeezing into the elevator, Waylon tucked in between a lumbering man growing his hair in patches and a wiry man covered in raised white scars. He's backed up against a man he recognizes, the one doing crosswords in the cafeteria ages ago. The man gives him a long look as Waylon glances back at him, eyebrows knitted together, as if studying him. Waylon prickles, but does his best to dismiss it.  
  
Someone's put on Disney's Pinocchio in the common area, and the group settles into the rows of chairs, talking and joking quietly. A man in the back is rocking back and forth, entranced by the bright animation. Waylon sits between Dennis and the man with porn in his pocket, and finds himself dozing, until his leg starts to tingle. He shakes it out and settles in a new position, but then, it lights up again, this time nearly painful, and he realizes it's the leg with the ankle monitor, tucked discreetly under the leg of his pants.  
  
He bolts up, startling the other patients, and darts out of the row. He thinks that it could be malfunctioning, but then he remembers what Dr. Clark said that morning. 7, he's supposed to meet them at 7. So he can see Eddie Gluskin again. He breaks out in a cold sweat.  
  
"Somethin' wrong?" Dennis asks with concern.  
  
Waylon shudders and shakes his head, darting towards the elevator. "I forgot, I have to check something. S-sorry!"   
  
The single guard on duty in the room eyeballs him as he passes, hand on his taser. Waylon slaps the buttons on the elevator as another jolt runs up his leg, and he mutters aloud, "I'm coming! God!"  
  
Waylon spends the seconds as the elevator climbs in a state of panic. He hasn't considered the possible outcomes until now. Either he befriends Eddie, if that's the word for it, and if Dennis' info is correct, Eddie is released into the general population. Or he fails, and either Eddie really does kill him this time, or Dr. Clark will, when he costs her one of her most valuable assets.  He realizes that he probably should have told Dennis, either way.   
  
There's another feeling too, as he steps out onto the residence floor and is greeted by Dr. Clark, holding aloft a small device that looks like a car remote and smirking at him, an orderly and two guards, one male and one female. The other feeling is why the hell he basically volunteered for this. Letting a man die is not in his nature, but it seems convenient, an easy excuse. The group hustles him back into the elevator he just stepped from, and someone hits the button for five.  
  
Because you liked it, says a voice in his head, suspiciously familiar. Because you liked how he looked at you.  
  
Waylon wonders, for a terrifying second, whether this whole plan was just an excuse to see _him_ again. A selfish act disguised as a selfless one. Is that who he was now?   
  
Waylon closes his eyes and thinks of the dark outside his window, bright to his new eyes. He thinks of his leg, clouded with nanotech, and how he definitely should have lost it to infection. He thinks of the guard's neck snapped in his hand.  
  
He thinks of the man who sang his kids to sleep at night. The man who kissed Lisa.  
  
A different man, he thinks. Not me.  
  
Not you, Lisa agrees. You're... _new_.  
  
The elevator opens.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, a lot of those tags start coming up in this chapter. I'm not an expert on mental health, so I may have written some things that are insensitive or inaccurate. I did try to handle Eddie's past in particular with sensitivity, but I also did not want to shy away from it.

"We don't want a repeat of this morning," Dr. Clark says as they step out onto the fifth floor, the orderly close at Waylon's elbow. "So we're keeping him in his cell. It's more heavily reinforced."  
  
Waylon frowns. "The glass in that room was reinforced too."  
  
Dr. Clark gives him a wry look. "We're blaming that one on Murkoff's cheap contracting. The cells are part of our original construction."  
  
"You needed reinforced cells in a psychiatric facility?"  
  
She gives him a long look over her shoulder as they cross the main room and into the hall. "You really don't understand mental illness, do you, Mr. Park. What it can make a person into."  
  
He crinkles his nose in disdain at her. "Animals that need cages, apparently."  
  
The lights are dimmed in the hall, just as Waylon remembered. The cells that previously contained men, one of which Waylon now knows was Miles Upshur, are now empty. There are some guards and doctors crowded around the front of one further down, presumably Eddie Gluskin's, murmuring quietly. Waylon can't quite see what they're doing. The back of Waylon's neck starts to tingle, the hairs standing up straight.  
  
"It's protection for themselves as much as it is for us, Waylon," Dr. Clark continues. "They can't always control what they do. We keep them from doing things they may regret when they're better."  
  
Waylon snorts, only half hearing her, eyes on the men ahead, the bright window of the cell silhouetting them. Dr. Lin steps out from the group to watch them approach. She looks exhausted, her eyes dark, face devoid of its usual makeup, making her pale and severe. She glances at the cell once more, and then steps back. They all step back.  
  
Gluskin is backed up against the window to his cell, his broad shoulders pressed to the glass. There's sweat staining the hospital gown he's wearing, open in the back, and the hem of the pants he's wearing underneath; Waylon can't see the full length of him but the pants are also spotted with blood, presumably the same pair he had on earlier that morning. His hands are held behind him, pushed through a small slot below the window, most likely where a food tray would be passed. He's held in place by a set of leather and steel cuffs around his wrists, the cuffs looping through a hook just above the slot. Like a prisoner. His head is drooping, making it impossible to see his face.  
  
"You promised," he's saying, deep voice echoing and tinny through the intercom beside the door. "You _promised_."  
  
Waylon feels like he's been doused with ice water, a chill sweeping down from the crown of his head to his toes. He steps into the circle, keeping his distance, but enough to get a clear view of the man. The fear is there, but something else too, seeing the leather of the cuffs cutting into the meat of Eddie's wrists.  
  
"Eddie Gluskin," Dr. Clark says with authority, striding into the open space in front of the window. "We know you're exhausted, but can you look back here for a moment? Then we'll release your hands."  
  
"You _doctors_ ," Eddie says, the sneer in his voice evident despite not being able to see his expression. "You're all the same."  
  
"Mr. Gluskin, we've done our best to help you, but we need cooperation. Can you tell us if you recognize this person?"  
  
" _This again_ ," Eddie snarls into the empty cell ahead of him, voice resounding off the bare walls. The muscles in his back flex as he tests the cuffs, rattling them against the bar and startling the nearest guard. "I won't anymore, I won't!" he bellows, the sound through the intercom crackling. "Just kill me, you sick pigs! You murderers! I won't!"  
  
The guards in the circle tense further and grab at their tasers as he rattles the cuffs again. The doctors shrink away. Even Dr. Clark takes a step back.  
  
Waylon doesn't move a muscle.  
  
"Eddie," he says.  
  
The man's body goes rigid.  
  
Waylon doesn't take his eyes off him, but in his peripheral, he sees the swivel of heads toward him. His breathe feels tight in his chest. No one says anything, no one tries to stop him, so he continues nervously.  
  
"My name's Waylon Park. I was in the room with you, earlier. Do you remember?" His voice feels small and high. He wants to remind the man of what he saw when he looked at Waylon in the hallway, but there's also the fear that Eddie will remember what Waylon did to the guard. Mentioning the room is as close as he dares to get.  
  
Eddie shifts his body and raises his head in one slow, fluid motion. It reminds Waylon of a lion, the power rippling under the man's skin. Eddie's face lifts over his shoulder, bruised, his nose splinted. The blood vessels in both of his eyes have burst after his beating, tinting both of the white of his eyes with blood, and there are dark black circles under them. He scans the group slowly, and then his eyes rest on Waylon. And they stay.  
  
"Darling," Eddie sighs, body going lax with relief. "You're alive."  
  
Waylon's heart lurches in his chest. He's not sure if he's excited, or sick to his stomach.  
  
Dr. Clark cautiously steps into Eddie's line of sight. "Mr. Gluskin. Can you tell us who this is?"  
  
He sneers at her, as well as he can, twisted at an odd angle. "You think I wouldn't recognize my own wife?"  
  
Waylon flushes and dips his head, discreetly peeking at the people around him. They have their attention fixed on the man in the cell, too distracted to giggle behind his back at the feminization, though he'd bet money that it will happen later.  
  
"See? We did keep our promise," Dr. Clark continues. Waylon can hear the building excitement in her voice.  
  
There's silence for a brief moment, enough to prompt Waylon to lift his head. Eddie is looking at him again, but Waylon can't manage to meet his eyes. As much as part of him had wanted it again, the intensity of the Groom's expression frightens him.  
  
"You've very nearly kept your promise," Eddie growls, his voice dropping low. He flexes his wrists in the cuffs again, and Waylon's eyes fix on them.  
  
Wait. Nearly?  
  
"Yes, of course, I remember," she says. Waylon's head snaps up just in time to catch her nodding at someone behind him.  
  
There's a sharp pain in the meat of his left buttock. Waylon twists away with a short cry, turning just in time to see the orderly who had been following him a little too closely pocket a syringe. Then his legs give out from under him and his body goes numb, the world going foggy and warm. Dr. Clark is behind him, catching him as he collapses and lowering him half to the floor. Waylon desperately wills his arms to move, to push himself away from her, wills the nanomachines in his body to fight like they had before... but nothing happens.  
  
Eddie is snarling somewhere to the side, rattling his chains. Waylon's hearing is muffled, quiet under the loud rasp of his own labored breathing. "What have you done to her? Keep your filthy hands off of her!"  
  
Dr. Clark stands and slips out of sight as the two guards from earlier step forward. "She's simply overwhelmed by the sight of you, Mr. Gluskin. She's been missing you a great deal." The guards lift his limp body, one at his knees and the other locking her arms under his armpits, pushing his head upright against her chest, so he's able to see the faces of the circle again, still clouded, but discernible. Dr. Lin, notably, looks horrified. Dr. Clark meets his eyes, pale, but resolved. "Please stay calm and be cooperative, or we'll have to take her back downstairs until you are."  
  
The metallic clatter of the chain fades, replaced by the shifting of the circle of guards and doctors, and Gluskin's heavy breathing. Then there's a heavy clunking sound. The shrill squeak of metal hinges.  
  
Then the two guards are carrying him into the cell.  
  
Waylon's throat constricts hard, feeling as if it will cramp. He only manages a worbling, "Nhha..."  
  
The metallic blood scent that he'd come to associate with floor five is strong here. Sweat and hate and nanotech. He rolls his eyes and can just barely see Eddie, his huge body shaking in restraint. Then the window and the open door of the cell drop away as they deposit him on a second bed. He hadn't seen it, behind the opaque door to the cell, and his attention had been focused on the Groom. He would have guessed, if he had seen it.  
  
The boots of the guards beat a fast retreat, and the clunk of the heavy reinforced door closing is met with a sigh of relief through the intercom.  
  
Waylon can't see anything besides the ceiling. The sounds coming up from his chest don't resemble words. His eyes and his slow tongue are the only things he can move or feel, but he can't control them, panicked noises in his mouth, his eyes straining to see anything, anything. A tingling sets into his fingertips. The drug being metabolized.  
  
As he hears the clattering sound of Eddie being released from his cuffs, he starts to pray that the numbness lasts.  
  
Despite the Groom's obvious fervor, he doesn't appear immediately. The food tray closes, and the noise outside cuts off, quiet descending over the cell. Waylon can hear Eddie breathing, a whistle to it, most likely the result of his broken nose.  
  
His footsteps are quiet, nearly silent. The rasp of his papery hospital gown is the only thing that betrays his approach, before the man himself appears over him. Waylon tries to force the noises in his throat to stop, but only manages to shutter them to a faint whimper.  
  
Eddie Gluskin's expression is like a storm. A promise of certain violence, but no promise as to when, or how, or why.  
  
"Darling," he growls, and Waylon feels the shift as Eddie pushes a knee onto the bed.  
  
A strangled groan is startled out of him. He realizes he can flex his fingers.  
  
Eddie leans down over him. His face, black eyed and splinted, still holds the old scarring, and the bloodshot eyes that Waylon remembered from Mount Massive, the rippled skin so much more grotesque up close. Waylon notices the man's lip is split, likely from the boot to the face. Then Eddie's dark expression cracks into joy, the same type of face he'd made in the old asylum. Waylon flashes back to the locker, being helpless and restrained, this man looming over him. His body begins to tremble uncontrollably despite the drug.  
  
"I missed you so much, Darling," Eddie says, brushing one large, rough hand over Waylon's cheek and hair. Down his neck. An unmistakable _squeeze_. "When you ran away from me, I felt like I was going to _die_..."  
  
Waylon flexes his leg muscles frantically, feeling pushing its way back into his toes. He's unable to stop himself from struggling, despite knowing that even if he could move, he has nowhere to go.  
  
"I know you were hiding from those... _men_ ," Gluskin sneers at the word, his voice a low whisper, his face so close that Waylon can smell his breath. His eyes have taken on that wild, far away look. "But if you had stayed with me, we could have escaped together... Why did you run _away from me?_ "  
  
Waylon has just enough sensation to drag his heels up the mattress and plant them, just as the Groom rears back, gripping Waylon around the neck with both hands. He locks his elbows, presses his thumbs into Waylon's windpipe, and then pushes his weight down.  
  
Just like that, Waylon can't breathe.  
  
Eddie's face is shadowed and distant, blue bright through the red of his eyes and the darkened circles of the sockets, looking right through him, face twisted with that familiar rage. Waylon throws his arms up, still limp as noodles, and tries to get his fingers to work at the knuckles of the hands around his throat, but it's fruitless. His voice creaks through his strangled throat as he tries to cry out.  
  
Waylon's lungs begin to burn, his mouth gaping open to pull in air that won't come. His head feels red hot, skin purpling under the shattering grip. Tears are streaming down his temples into the dark roots of his hair. As he begins to black out, weakly kicking at the bedspread, he wonders if this is the result Dr. Clark hoped for. He can't grasp any sense in it, can't imagine what it will accomplish for them, his death, at the hands of this man, here.  
  
There's a clatter on the tile floor of the cell, and Eddie's hand slip just a bit, still locked tight, but letting in enough air to clear his vision in a thin wheezing gasp. Eddie pauses, and then turns to look, as if his responses are delayed.  
  
The man's face goes chalk white.  
  
Waylon realizes, belatedly, that he'd lost a slipper in the struggle, tumbling to the floor. The small tube of medical lubricant still tucked into the toe.  
  
"No," Eddie says, the word coming out like a bark, short and breathy.  
  
Waylon takes the opportunity to hitch a leg up and plant his bare foot on Eddie's chest, against the joint of his shoulder, and pushing as hard as he can. Eddie's fingers, slippery with sweat, unlock from around his throat and Waylon gulps down air, throat raw, and he convulses in a coughing fit. Eddie stumbles away, his back hitting the baseboard of his own bed and propelling it against the far wall with a sharp crack. He casts a glance at Waylon, his hair disheveled, his face as open and frightened as a child. Waylon hasn't seen this face, could never have even imagined it, on this powerful monster of a man.  
  
Then he locks his gaze on the tube again. "No."  
  
Waylon's limbs are still shivery with the rapidly fading drug, but he manages himself to pull himself up the bed until he's sitting against the wall, eyes on the big man shaking on the floor. Any moment, the man could snap again. Who knows what he was really seeing right now?  
  
"You... Did they do that to you...? They-" Eddie is stammering. " _Rapists_ , those fucking-" He pushes himself hard against the bed, the frame of it creaking under the exertion. "I won't, I wouldn't, I... I'm not _like_ my _father_ , I would n-never-"  
  
Waylon rubs his abused neck and looks for guidance outside the cell, any indication that help may be coming, but he sees that the window has dimmed and become opaque. A one way mirror. No help there, as usual.  
  
Eddie's big body freezes, tightening in increments, breath escaping through chattering teeth. "Are they... I'll fucking kill them if they t-touch... They..."  
  
That's the moment when Waylon recalls what he'd read in Eddie Gluskin's files. His abuse at the hands of his father and uncle, most likely involving penetrative rape. Most likely involving a product like the one lying on the floor in front of him. Its presence must have triggered him, sending him back into that helpless, desperate place.  
  
Waylon feels a pang of sympathy. But he's also just escaped strangulation, perhaps fleetingly. As all things with the Groom, a confusing mess.  
  
Before he can second guess himself, Waylon slips forward on his wobbly arms and lowers a foot to the floor. He locates the tube with his toes and then pushes it hard, so it skids across the smooth floor, and back under his bed. The Groom's gaze lingers there for a moment, then snaps up to him.  
  
"It's okay," Waylon says. He tries to sound authoritative, but it comes out gravelly and small.  
  
Eddie stares at him intensely, the ice blue of his eyes piercing in his bruised face. "I'm not like my father," he repeats.  
  
Waylon isn't entirely sure what to make of that, but he nods anyway. "You're not."  
  
After another long moment, Eddie nods, then hefts himself up from the floor. Waylon shrinks back into the corner at the head of the bed, but it's like Eddie's forgotten he's there. The man walks slowly around his bed, spends a minute staring at his own reflection in the darkened window, and then eases himself into his bed. He lies on his side, facing the door. Facing away from Waylon.  
  
If the man falls asleep, it's impossible to tell. For a man as big as he is, everything he does is ghostly silent.  
  
Waylon slowly unlocks his limbs from his curled position, and feels the trembling of unspent adrenaline begin to work its way out of his body. The small bed, a cot really, is made up with precision, the blankets barely mussed in the struggle. Waylon spreads his legs out over it, one foot still slippered and the other bare. The pant leg over his slippered foot hitches up over the leg monitor that he had forgotten was there; he realizes he's probably lucky it didn't get jostled too badly in the struggle and electrocute them both. He knows that half the hospital staff probably just watched stolen lube fall out of his shoe, but he can't bring himself to be embarrassed about it. It literally just saved his life.  
  
Still, the dark glass of the window is oppressive. The small size of the room doesn't help, and to distract himself from the claustrophobia and almost inevitable impending panic attack, Waylon takes stock. Eddie's bed, similar to the one in his room downstairs, then his bed, most likely a foldout cot, slightly lower and narrower. There's a toilet in the back corner with a curtain around it, a small sink on the wall beside it. No shower. No toiletries, no books or magazines. There's a small square dresser near Eddie's bed on the far side which holds a clear plastic cup, half full of water. It's... barren. Other than the strong metallic smell, there's also the ripe stink of body odor and old infection.  
  
Waylon finds it difficult to look away from Eddie for too long. His romantic ideas of befriending the man (and maybe more) are six feet under, and the only question at this point is how soon he'll try to kill him again. He feels stupid to have even imagined it. The man's last act had been to hang him, for chrissakes.  
  
From this angle, Waylon can see the full expanse of the Groom's back through the opening in the gown. There's an ugly mass of scar tissue at the small of his back, the point where the pipe had skewered him, splattering his guts over the floor but narrowly missing the spine. Most likely it's the only reason he lived, that inch to the left.  
  
Higher up his back are old scars and new bruises. There's some of the scarred blistering running down the back of his neck from his face, still pink and raw. The older scars are white and raised, threaded with stretch marks. He must have been small when he got those, Waylon realizes.  
  
"He's asleep," a voice crackles quietly through the intercom, jolting Waylon out of his inspection.  
  
"We already gave him a sedative, but he was too keyed up for it to take effect. It should last a couple hours now that he calmed down," Dr. Clark continues. She's adjusting the opacity on the window, coming into view just outside.  
  
Waylon throws a glance at the man, recalling Miles Upshur's claims about his own sedatives. But he hasn't reacted to the sound of her voice, and he doesn't seem lucid enough to fake sleep.  
  
Carefully, Waylon eases to the floor and wobbles toward the intercom. He puts his hands on the wall to steady himself, and rasps, "Let me out."  
  
She makes a tsking noise. "Sorry, Mr. Park. We need him to stabilize, and this is the closest we've gotten in weeks."  
  
"I don't understand what this does for you," Waylon says, trying to keep his voice low. It hurts to speak.  
  
She sighs. "We expected one of two outcomes. He kills you. Or he doesn't. If he kills you, it's possible it will complete the delusion of his missing wife; she ran away from him, he punishes her, then he can move on. It could also send him into a state of shock. Either way, we get a few more weeks of testing out of him while he plays with the body-" She catches herself as he grimaces at her, but she doesn't look especially apologetic. "Sorry. Basically, we get the rest of the data we need, we hand off to Murkoff once they’ve set up at their new facility, they give us a tidy bonus, and then it's back to business as usual here at Blue Garden."  
  
"And if," Waylon growls. "By some fucking _miracle_ , he doesn't kill me? I just _live_ in here?"  
  
She shrugs. "You are his wife, after all."  
  
He glares at her.  
  
"It's not as if you're entirely averse to it," she says smugly, nodding her head in the direction of the hidden lubricant. "Your bisexuality and submissive nature were top notes in your files. You've already gotten further with him than we have in weeks."  
  
"He doesn't want to fuck me. He wants to murder me. I'm actually _really_ averse to that."  
  
Dr. Clark snorts. "You'd be surprised. This isn't the same man you met in Mount Massive. The Groom was a product of the Engine. His modus operandi was a product too. He killed women before the Asylum, not men. The delusion of you as his wife could fade, the same as everything else. And there IS something he likes about you, specifically, Mr. Park. We put at least fifty men AND women in front of him, and he picked you."  
  
"He picked me," Waylon says, pressing his forehead against the wall. "Because I nearly killed him. Then left him for dead."  
  
She shrugs again. "Well. Like I said. Two outcomes."  
  
Waylon lifts his head. "And after all of this. Even if I don't die in here. Once you get your data. Murkoff kills us all anyway."  
  
Her face is stone, the good humor fixed in her expression, but her eyes are deep and dark. "There was never another option, Mr. Park." She leans forward and presses a control panel, dimming the window again. Through the intercom, her voice crackles. "You know that."  
  
Waylon stands for a long time with his hands on the wall.  
  
When he looks over his shoulder, he sees Eddie Gluskin. The man's face is softer in sleep, but there's a pinch between his eyebrows, like he's angry about something, even when he's sleeping.  
  
There's no way to keep time in the cell, so Waylon's not sure how long it's been when the man wakes up again.


	18. Chapter 18

Waylon's assessment of the room revealed no easy hiding spaces (under the beds would have been obvious, but Waylon's is too low, the foldout mechanics underneath making the space too narrow for his body, and Eddie's has a thick solid base underneath that reminds him of a hotel bed) and so he's curled himself up at the head of the bed again. He can't keep himself from dozing, his head drooping every few minutes, or seconds, it's hard to tell. It's most likely late at night by now.  
  
He pulls his head up from one particularly long doze to find Eddie Gluskin staring at him.  
  
Waylon's body goes stiff and his senses sharpen, adrenaline kicking in again. This late, there won't even be anyone outside to watch him die.  
  
Eddie has rolled over and is propped up on his elbows, squinting at him, like he's still half asleep, or not sure what he's seeing. He sits up after a moment, leaning toward him.  
  
"Darling," he says. "Is that you?"  
  
Waylon's breath catches. He could lie, but he doesn't know what lie could keep him alive.   
  
Eddie lowers his head into his hands and groans, rubbing his temples. "I lost my temper earlier. I'm so sorry, Darling. I know you wouldn't have run away if you didn't have to."  
  
He looks up again, expression soft. "Can you forgive me?"  
  
Waylon swallows hard. "O-of course."  
  
Eddie's face breaks into a smile, not quiet the manic grin from earlier, but close. At least it touches his eyes. Then he winces, and touches his splinted nose. "Ugh."  
  
It's such a remarkably human gesture than Waylon can't hold back a harsh exhalation, something like a laugh. Gluskin looks up at him sharply, but then immediately sighs. "I suppose I earned that. But you know how angry I get, Darling."  
  
The man seems so remarkably lucid and almost reasonable that Waylon catches his body trying to relax. There's still a mess of unknowns floating through his head. He doesn't know how to navigate this situation. He doesn't know anything about psychology. He doesn't know anything about where this man has been, where he is now, inside the labyrinth of his own mind.  
  
"Are you alright? Did I hurt you earlier?" Eddie asks, looking at him with sharp clarity. It's almost like he really sees him.  
  
There's only one thing that he can think of. It comes naturally to him, part of the game he had with Lisa. It breaks his heart to bring anything of hers into this, but every other option he's considered seems like it would make the man angrier.  
  
So he plays the wife.  
  
"I'm f-fine," he says, his voice still strained. "Nothing I... didn't deserve."  
  
Eddie cocks his head at him, gaze sleepy but penetrative. Then the man's slipping off the bed and stepping toward him.  
  
Waylon's body coils like a spring. He wonders if those stupid nanomachines would even help him in this situation. Maybe they view Gluskin as one of their own. Maybe that's the only reason they reacted before, to defend Eddie.  
  
As Eddie steps nearer, his bare feet silent on the linoleum floor, he pauses. Then, confusingly, he carefully picks up Waylon's lost slipper from beside the bed.  
  
Gingerly, as if genuinely trying not to scare him, Eddie sits sideways on the edge of his bed. But there's no unsurety in his movements as he reaches for Waylon's bare foot. Waylon forces himself not to struggle, letting the man lift his leg by the ankle, and slipping the shoe back on. Then his hands linger, the calloused thick fingers grasping around the jut of his ankle, rubbing tiny circles.  
  
His hand slips higher. Waylon's breathing shudders. He can't bring himself to look at Eddie's face, just watching the slide of his rough hand up under his pant leg, brushing at the fine hair of his calf. He brings his hand up around his leg and onto his shin, bunching the fabric, and then dragging it down again. There's a twinge as his fingers brush the scarring of the puncture wound he'd gotten in the elevator shaft, and for a terrifying second, Eddie pauses on it, and Waylon is sure he remembers. But the touch remains gentle, and slides back to his ankle again.  
  
Waylon thinks about those hands on him in Mount Massive, bound to the boards, the circular saw whizzing between his legs. He's so fucking scared, but there's still that twinge in his groin, and he squeezes his legs tightly together and shivers. The Groom feels the tremble run through him and chuckles.  
  
Then he slowly lifts a hand and reaches toward's Waylon's neck. It takes every ounce of willpower in Waylon's body to not flinch away. Instead, he lets his head and neck go lax, dropping his head back and tipping his chin up, exposing the bruised line of his throat. His eyes flutter closed.  
  
He feels the ghost of the man's hand as he hesitates, a sound escaping him, almost like a groan. Then he brushes his fingers along the bruising on Waylon's neck, gently thumbing the soft underside of his chin.  
  
"Oh my Darling," the Groom breathes, rubbing light circles at the bruises. Waylon swallows, and feels Eddie thumb at the pulse of his throat.   
  
Eddie lifts his other hand, still resting on Waylon's foot, and mirrors his grasp, his hands on both sides of Waylon's neck.  
  
It's easier, Waylon thinks. Tries to convince himself. Let it happen.  
  
The hands slip higher, rubbing at his jaw, thumbs sliding up to his cheekbones, into the sleep-dark circles of his eye sockets. Waylon keeps his eyes closed as Eddie gently, but firmly, tilts his head toward him, letting it rest heavily in his hands. A quick twist is all it would take.  
  
It'll hurt. But then. It'll just be... over.  
  
"I missed you," Eddie whispers. Waylon let's his eyes drift open, and Eddie's face is close, purple and red from his injuries, looking at him with _such_ _immaculate adoration_.  
  
Waylon shudders once more, hard, then opens his mouth, and sobs.  
  
The tears come, welling up and dripping down his cheeks into Eddie's palms, and Eddie just keeps wiping them away, and looking at him. Even when Waylon's nose begins to run, and his mouth twists open, he keeps looking at him like he loves him. And it makes him cry harder.  
  
At last Eddie wraps his arms around him, pressing Waylon's face into the crook of his shoulder, and Waylon puts his arms around him and falls apart. He lets himself wail into the man's body. He hasn't cried like this yet, and he realizes he had been building toward it, this release. His captivity, his torture, losing his family, losing everything. Losing. The pent up emotion pours out of him. It's like an exorcism.  
  
And through it all, the Groom rubs his back, and pets his hair. As Waylon's sobs give way to hitching breathes, he leans away slightly and presses a kiss to Waylon's forehead. "I promise," he whispers. "I won't hurt you again."  
  
Waylon squeezes his arms around him, and cries.


	19. Chapter 19

Waylon wakes up feeling better than he has in months. He can only assume it's early morning, since there are no windows to the outside in the cell, and the window to the hall is still opaque. The lights have been dimmed to near black, but Waylon can see perfectly, the cell bright in low light grayscale.  
  
He's still in his small bed, on his side, blankets still tightly wrapped around the mattress under him. He's warm.   
  
Eddie is wrapped around him a little like an octopus, one bicep serving as Waylon's pillow, forearm folded down over his chest, the other arm hooked over his shoulder, pinning his arms. Waylon notes with some slight discomfort that the man's warm hand has worked its way up under the hem of his shirt and is clutching his soft belly. One of his legs is thrown over Waylon's, completing the cage. Waylon fights the urge to squirm away as he slips into full alertness.  
  
Eddie fucking Gluskin is spooning him. Waylon feels the rhythmic tickle of his breath at the back of his neck.  
  
The room still smells. It doesn't seem like they've let Eddie bathe properly in weeks. Yet, Waylon can't bring himself to be disgusted by it. In fact, it brings him screeching back to his college days, when he'd had his first (and only) semi-serious boyfriend, an athlete; he liked to have sex after his morning run, the clean, healthy scent of his sweat and body odor making Waylon's cock ache. Eddie's isn't clean or healthy, but it's masculine, and it cuts right to Waylon's dick in the same way. Waylon squeezes his thighs together and rolls his eyes at himself.  
  
Perhaps feeling his slight movement, Eddie groans quietly, and his arms flex around him. Then he bows his spine in a full body stretch, pressing his belly and groin tight against Waylon's back and ass, and Waylon's breath stutters as he feels the soft bulge of the man's dick, practically rubbing it against him.  
  
Waylon's body goes cold. He's flashing back, violently, to the room in Mount Massive where he watched through the locker vent as Eddie put a knife through a man's pelvis in an attempt to remove his 'vulgarity'. He envisions a future, seconds from now, where Eddie's warm hand slips happily down his belly and gets a handful of his 'wife's' soft dick and balls.  
  
He tries to slip out of bed while Eddie's still groggy, but he only manages to roll onto his belly before Eddie is pressing him down into the mattress, arms tight around him.  
  
"Darling, I was afraid I'd dreamed you," Eddie sighs happily into his ear.  
  
"Mmh," Waylon grunts, face pressed into the sheets. He can feel Eddie's grin against the back of his neck.   
  
The man appears to doze again, his body weight holding Waylon fast. With his cock out of reach, at least not without some struggle, and slim chances of escaping the bed anytime soon, Waylon lets himself drift as well.  
  
Eventually, the lights come on. There is a clatter near the window, and as he tries to strain his neck to look, Eddie pushes him down.  
  
"It's just breakfast," he grumbles. "Lie with me. Before they-"  
  
"Mr. Gluskin?" the intercom crackles on cue.  
  
Eddie sighs heavily, the expansion of his chest and ribcage almost pleasant against Waylon's back. Then he heaves himself up and over Waylon, positioning himself between him and window, as if trying to block his view. Or block their view of him. Waylon pushes up and leans to the side to peek around the man's bulk, just in time to see the opacity drop and Dr. Lin come into view.  
  
She still looks exhausted, but better, like perhaps she'd gotten some sleep. Her makeup is lighter, like she'd stopped at the basics. She gives a warm, tense smile at Eddie, then her eyes flick to Waylon, and they're like ice. Absurdly, he identifies it as jealousy. She thought he’d be dead by now.  
  
He wants to welcome her to come take his place if she wants to fuck Eddie so badly, but he bites his tongue in Eddie's presence. The game, he reminds himself. He's not completely sure what's in character yet, but it's most likely not taunting the staff.  
  
"I had hoped for more time alone with my wife, considering our recent reunion," Eddie says, and Waylon picks up on a frigidness that he hasn't heard before. The interaction he'd witnessed between Eddie and Dr. Lin in the split room, before it all went to shit, had seemed warmer somehow.  
  
"I'm very sorry, but it's rather urgent. There's some... diagnostics we need to run on you, and we have a limited time frame." Her eyes cut quickly back to Waylon's, and this time, there's urgency in them.   
  
The previous day comes rushing back, along with Dr. Clark's words. Murkoff. Termination. The whole reason he's here.  
  
Waylon wobbles to his feet and steps up behind Eddie, putting a hand tentatively on the man's elbow. Eddie tenses fractionally, and then gazes down at him as Waylon slowly tucks himself into his side. "I can stay with him, right?"  
  
Dr. Lin smiles tensely. "Of course."  
  
Waylon forces himself to smile too, looking up at Eddie. He has an unhappy frown on his face, and Waylon's nervous it's directed at something he's said or done, but then he sighs. "Fine. But I want you in my sight at all times, Darling." He leans in and kisses the top of Waylon's head. Waylon flushes and darts a glance at Dr. Lin, who is determinedly looking away.  
  
"We'll come collect you both in about fifteen minutes. Please try to eat something and use the facilities before then. We'll run through everything fast so it would help if we didn't need to take breaks."  
  
"Of course," Eddie growls.  
  
She looks like she's about to leave, but then hesitates. "Mr. Gluskin. Eddie. I know these are not ideal circumstances, but please remember, we DID keep our promise. And all we need from you in return is cooperation. You promised US as well."  
  
Waylon watches Eddie out of the corner of his eyes. The man grimaces, puffs up like he's ready for a fight, then deflates again with a sigh. "Yes, I suppose I did."  
  
She nods again, and then makes a brisk exit. Only once she's out of sight does Eddie step away from him, examining the food trays that had been deposited earlier. Waylon takes another look at the curtained toilet in the corner, assesses the state of his bladder, and realizes he's going to have to take a risk. "Eddie?"  
  
The man's eyes find him quickly. His reaction times are improved from yesterday; more than likely, it was the drugs messing with him. Waylon can only hope it's the reason for his sudden violence as well. His lucidity in the conversation with Dr. Lin is almost baffling. Waylon's not quite sure how the man can converse easily with Dr. Lin, but still somehow think Waylon is his wife. Not only that he's a woman, but that there was a ceremony at some point, maybe even a honeymoon, with sex, a period of time before all that where they dated... Or maybe it's just a word, and the Groom doesn't even think about those things, simply operating under the assumption that what he 'knows' is true.   
  
"Yes?" he says.  
  
"I uh," Waylon gulps. "I have to use the bathroom. It's not exactly, um, private..." He gestures toward the curtained toilet. It was meant to shield the patient from onlookers outside, NOT roommates. These rooms were never intended to hold more than one person at a time.  
  
Eddie gives the toilet a puzzled look, and then his face brightens. "Oh, don't be shy, Darling. Accepting each other's biological functions is simply a part of becoming intimate with another person."   
  
Waylon can't stop his eyebrows from climbing up his face. It's a weirdly modern statement; the Groom from Mount Massive was a devout misogynist, as if he expected the 'women' he met to be the perfect 40's ideal. Listening to his wife piss doesn't seem quite in line with that.  
  
Eddie leans forward a bit and waggles his eyebrows, almost flirtatiously. "If you're too embarrassed, though, I can plug my ears and sing loudly while you relieve yourself."  
  
Waylon blushes. "Um, I wouldn't mind that... If it's okay with you..."  
  
Eddie smiles widely and puts his hands behind his back as he turns and casually strolls to the hall window, humming. Waylon watches him for a moment, and then slips over to the toilet, pulling the curtain. He stares at it for a second, then decides not to take the obvious risk of peeing in his usual way, despite the vulnerability of possibly, literally, getting caught with his pants down. He turns and listens to Eddie humming, still in place on the far side of the room, then drops his pants and settles, tucking his dick carefully between his thighs.   
  
" _When I was a boy_ ," Eddie starts singing suddenly. " _My mother often said to me..._ "  
  
Waylon's body seizes up, and he starts to sweat. It's the same song from the asylum. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to just force himself to go. If he just goes it will all be over. But his body is locked up, and he can't. His teeth start to chatter.  
  
" _I want a girl,_ " Eddie starts on the next verse.  
  
"Um," Waylon says, before he really gives himself permission to do so. Then he freezes.  
  
"Yes, Darling? Should I sing it louder?" The man's voice is still far, muffled slightly by the curtain.  
  
"Do you, uh..." A good wife wouldn't be so picky, a voice hisses at him. "Um, it's just, I've heard that one before... Do you know a-another one?"  
  
There is quiet outside the curtain is perfect and terrifying. Waylon can't even hear the shift of his clothing, like the man is standing absolutely still... or moving in perfect silence.  
  
"Hm," the man breaks the quiet suddenly. "My memory must not be what it used to be. I'm afraid I don't recall many." It's said contemplatively, and Waylon allows himself to be hopeful. Not immediately angry then.  
  
"I can recall a more recent one. You've probably heard it before, but..." his tone is almost shy.   
  
"Um... Even if I have, I've never heard you sing it..." Waylon tries lamely, then grimaces at himself. He's going to get strangled to death on a toilet. Great.  
  
There's quiet again, then a shuffle.  
  
Then, " _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..._ "  
  
Waylon almost giggles out loud. 'More recent' indeed. His grandmother sang him that song at bedtime.  
  
Eddie haltingly makes his way through the first set of familiar lyrics, and Waylon lets his body unspool. Finally, finally, he relaxes enough to relieve himself. He tries to target the side of the bowl but it still seems loud in the small space, Eddie increasing his volume, and he's still blushing hotly as he rebuttons his pants and flushes. He tries to tell himself to get used to it, because eventually he'll have to do more than piss, but it's too mortifying to dwell on.  
  
He's very sure now that he's going to die on the toilet.  
  
He pushes the curtain aside and moves quickly to the small sink to wash his hands. He can't bring himself to look at Eddie, who has stopped singing and most likely turned back toward him. As he squeaks off the tap and shakes his damp hands over the sink, he hears a quiet shuffle behind him. It's all the warning he gets before a hand presses against his back, and he jumps.  
  
"Darling," Eddie hums, pressing himself close. "Did you like that one?"  
  
Waylon shivers and nods, gripping the edge of the sink. "Y-yes, I like that one. It... sounded lovely when you sang it."  
  
"I'll sing it more often then. And I'll learn some new ones, when they allow me a record player again..." Waylon can hear the sneer in his voice. Then Eddie leans closer and wraps his arms around Waylon's slight body, humming. His hands rest over Waylon's chest and belly, holding their bodies together. "Pardon my language, Darling, but I've been in hell. But now that you're with me, I feel that it might be bearable..."  
  
Waylon pauses, considering, and then says, very quietly, "Hopefully, we'll get out of here soon..."  
  
Eddie stops humming, and presses his mouth close to Waylon's ear. "Do you think so, Darling?"  
  
Waylon rubs his damp hands against his pant legs, and then, carefully, presses his hands over Eddie's. "If you... If you trust me. Then yes, I think so."  
  
Eddie kisses the side of his head, the top of his ear, humming again, thoughtfully, without melody. "I want to kiss you properly. So badly," he groans. Then with a growl, "But I don't want THEM to see..."   
  
The way he avoided Waylon's statement about trust makes him suspicious, but he can't let himself dwell on it now. One step at a time, he reminds himself. He rubs Eddie's hands, his smaller fingers slipping into the grooves between his metacarpals. "There'll be time. We should probably eat something while we can. Are you hungry?"  
  
Eddie groans again, his hands roaming up Waylon's body, squeezing at his chest, where his breasts would be, if he had them. "Hungry for you..."  
  
Waylon can't hold in his snort. He immediately freezes, but Eddie doesn't even seem to notice, continuing to massage his chest, sighing.   
  
Quietly, lips brushing the shell of Waylon's ear, he sings in that deep, sweet voice, " _Please don't take my sunshine from me..._ "   
  
Waylon shivers. He tries to quell it, but he feels his body start to heat up. He lets his head fall back against Eddie's chest.  
  
Then, suddenly, Eddie pulls himself away. Waylon is surprised, and catches himself missing the attention almost immediately. Then he chastises himself, gathering his thoughts. He plants a hand on the sink again and turns slowly, his knees still a bit wobbly.  
  
Eddie has quickly crossed the room and collected the two breakfast trays that had been deposited earlier. He lifts them up as he turns back to Waylon, smiling. "You are right though, Darling. We should eat. I don't want you going hungry. You're so very skinny..." He shakes his head and tsks at him as he settles the two trays on his bed, sitting by one and clearly leaving space for Waylon in front of the other.  
  
His smile is that big one that touches his eyes. Waylon decides he likes that smile. He returns it shakily and makes his way to the bed, sitting carefully so as not to upset the tray. Eddie smiles wider.  
  
Breakfast is oatmeal and orange slices, and a slice of wheat toast with peanut butter. There's also a bottle of apple juice. Waylon notes with disappointment that there's no coffee, but Eddie doesn't seem bothered, so he figures it must be a regular thing. He resigns himself to living without caffeine for awhile, and digs into what they did give him.   
  
A nurse comes by a few minutes into breakfast and delivers two paper cups through the slot, one with a red rim. He gestures to them, pressing the button for the intercom. "Mr. Gluskin, the ones in the red cup are for you. M-, um," he pauses, catching himself, then nods at Waylon. "The other ones are for you. I need to see you both take them."  
  
Eddie grumbles as he makes his way over to the cups, Waylon close at his elbow. In Waylon's cup is the familiar antibiotic and what he suspects is a mild sedative, and a new one he doesn't recognize. He glimpses Eddie's cup before he sweeps it up and downs it in one gulp. There's at least six pills in it, all unfamiliar. The nurse watches him, then turns to Waylon, who reluctantly downs his, having to work a little to get all three down at once. He instructs them both to open wide and show their hands. Satisfied, the nurse moves on.  
  
Waylon looks to Eddie warily. The man has been something approaching normal this morning, despite his obvious misunderstanding of who Waylon is. It's possible that whatever drug combo they had him on last night could have contributed to his attack and subsequent breakdown. But there's little he can do about it but try to lie low if the symptoms reemerge.   
  
Eddie gives him that loving smile again and Waylon can't help but smirk back. "An unfortunate necessity, isn't it. The alternative is very unpleasant, when one refuses to take them."  
  
Waylon nods slowly. "Do you... Do you know what they're giving you?"  
  
Eddie shrugs as he makes his way back to breakfast, seeming eager to drop the subject. "Many things with many big words that you needn't concern yourself with."  
  
Waylon moves back to his tray, picking at it thoughtfully. "They're giving you antibiotics, right? And painkillers? For your injuries."  
  
Eddie looks up from his food at him, and for the first time that morning, his gaze is slightly unfriendly. "I told you not to worry about it."  
  
Waylon bites his lip and looks down into his tray. "You're right. Of course. I'm sorry."  
  
He senses the other man is still looking at him, so he focuses on his oatmeal, desperately trying to look like he's already forgotten all about it. A good wife would worry, the voice says. Eddie's 'good wife' would obey him, he counters bitterly.  
  
"No. I... apologize," Eddie mumbles. Waylon's so surprised he can't conceal it, eyes snapping up.   
  
Eddie looks... _embarrassed_ , looking down at the floor. He pokes at his own face gingerly. "You have every right to worry," he mutters. "But I must admit, it's quite... humiliating. I feel rather pathetic at the moment."  
  
He turns his eyes to Waylon's then, the bright blue of them still as cutting as the first time he'd seen them. "I'm supposed to be strong for you," he says with conviction. "A good husband protects his family."  
  
As the words sink in, he feels a lurching sickness in his belly. Cold sweat breaks over his skin. That's what HE wishes he had been, to Lisa, to his boys. He wishes he had been there to protect them. He was a failure. He should have known, should have escaped, should have left sooner, should have never taken the job. Should have, should have, should have.  
  
Maybe Lisa, the real Lisa, had died hating him. He'll never know. All he has is the voice in his head which tells him what he wants to hear.   
  
He shakes his head. "A good husband... loves his family." He rubs the tears from his eyes before they can dribble out, swallowing the rest of them down. He looks up at the Groom, who is watching him with an unreadable expression.  
  
In for a penny, he thinks, and he reaches out slowly and gently cups the Groom's face. "Do you love me, Eddie?"  
  
That same expression holds, and then cracks wide with emotion. "Yes," the man breathes out, touching a hand to Waylon's where it rests on his cheek, his eyes gone shiny with tears. "With all that I am, Darling."  
  
Waylon smiles. "Then that's more than enough."


	20. Chapter 20

It feels like ages, but only twenty minutes pass.   
  
Dr. Lin returns just as they're finishing breakfast, Dr. Clark and several guards in tow. An orderly trails them pushing a wheelchair loaded with straps and restraints. Dr. Clark steps forward, giving them both a long, contemplative look. Waylon squirms a little, thinking how they must appear, perched facing each other on the bed, sharing a meal. Companionable. He hates that she was right, even if it was still a 50/50 guess. The man across from him is truly not the same one he had encountered in Mount Massive.  
  
She punches the intercom on. "Good morning, you two. Dr. Lin tells me you plan on being cooperative today, Mr. Gluskin?"  
  
Eddie glares at her. "As long as my wife stays with me."  
  
His wife, Waylon reminds himself. Play the game. Everyone (hopefully) stays alive.  
  
She glances at Waylon, smirking. "Of course. We're still going to need to restrain you, Mr. Gluskin. You understand."  
  
Eddie bristles. Waylon reaches out a tentative hand and rubs his forearm, feeling the muscle stiffen under the unfamiliar touch, keeping his eyes focused on Dr. Clark. "I-is that necessary?" he asks, knowing full well that it IS, but pleading Dr. Clark with his eyes to play along.  
  
She looks at the point where Waylon's touching Eddie for a long moment, and then seems to get it. "It's only for the peace of mind of our doctors. Your husband has caused no few of them serious bodily harm while he's been here. Not to mention what he's done to some of our guards..." She lifts her eyebrows pointedly at him.  
  
Waylon looks to Eddie, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Eddie is still quietly fuming, but his jaw is clamped tight. He must remember some of it, if he can't come up with an excuse, Waylon thinks. But then, he's given no indication that he remembers Waylon's specific role in the attack on the guards, so who knows what the man keeps and discards. Maybe he's just afraid.  
  
Waylon shifts closer, keeping his voice quiet and hoping that the people outside can't hear. "You frighten them," he murmurs. "Because they know how strong you are."  
  
Eddie's eyes leap to his, expression dark and angry. But there's a spark in them that's only for him.  
  
"I'll be right next to you the whole time," Waylon says more loudly. He looks over to Dr. Clark. "You won't be putting restraints on me too, right?"  
  
She looks at him thoughtfully, eyes flickering down toward his ankle in a deliberate reminder of the restraint he's already wearing. "It doesn't seem necessary. You've given us no reason to think you'd need them."  
  
He scowls at her, then carefully turns back to Eddie. The man's still taut as a bow string, but is taking deep breaths, as if trying to stay calm. Waylon thinks about all the pills they gave him, all the sedatives they gave him the night before, which may have set off his manic episode. How he's still recovering from the beating the guards gave him in the hall. Any number of things could set him off now.   
  
"I'll put them on you," he hears himself saying. "No one else will touch you unless it's absolutely essential."  
  
The man turns slowly to him, still breathing deep. Waylon gulps, scrambling mentally. He has the terrifying thought that Eddie could misunderstand, could think he's on their side. It's at least partial truth. Waylon flounders for a second, then whispers, "Please. I-I... can't bear to see them touching you."  
  
Eddie pauses mid breath, eyes widening. Waylon thinks that he sees the man's cheeks flush, but reminds himself that it's probably the tension. "Alright, Darling." Eddie says, haltingly. "If it... will make you feel better..."  
  
Dr. Clark looks reluctant, obviously not trusting Waylon to put them on properly, but Waylon stares her down, and finally they pass the first set of cuffs through the slot. It's a connected set of wrist and ankle cuffs, like a prisoner would wear. Eddie looks at them warily as Waylon carries them over, but he maintains his breathing.  
  
Carefully, fully expecting Eddie the snap at any second, Waylon kneels down and gently pulls one strap around Eddie's thick ankle. The man is barefoot still, seeming to have never gotten shoes or slippers of any kind, and Waylon makes a mental note to request some for him, if he lives that long. Then he feels silly. Apparently the role of doting wife fits him better than he'd like.  
  
After he fixes the leg cuffs, he stands for the wrists, and Eddie stands with him, petrifying Waylon for a blind second until he holds both wrists out in front of him obediently. As Waylon tightens those, he glances up at Eddie and finds him locked in something of a staring contest with Dr. Clark. She has that smug expression again, when things are working out in her favor, though she's reining in the grin this time. Eddie's face is pinched and resentful, but resigned. He tests the cuffs after Waylon finishes with them, and raises them as high as they go, which is not quite high enough for his height. He gives them a deliberate snap to demonstrate that they're firmly locked, directing the gesture at Dr. Clark.  
  
" _Harpy_ ," Eddie grumbles under his breath, just loud enough for Waylon to hear. "That woman _lives_ to see me suffer."  
  
Waylon bites his tongue to keep from chuckling in agreement. He doesn't want Eddie to start thinking about how his 'wife' has been living in the clutches of 'that woman' as well. The man is possessive enough already. Instead, Waylon just rubs his wrists around the cuffs soothingly. Eddie seems to melt under it. Waylon realizes it must have been years since the man had been touched with anything other than violence or clinical detachment. Years, if ever.  
  
With Eddie secured, they finally crack the door, and the orderly carefully pushes the chair in. He instructs Waylon on how to use the restraints, and then steps back. Several guards stand with their tasers ready surrounding the entrance to the cell.  
  
Eddie, rather easily now, moves to sit, then watches Waylon carefully as he moves to fix the restraints in place. Waylon fights to keep his expression calm and neutral, as if this is all completely normal. He tightens the thick straps around Eddie's chest and shoulders, which pinch at the thin fabric and make his muscles bulge, and then his legs, working around the cuffs. They instruct him to lock down Eddie's elbows, but leave his wrists in the cuffs rather than separate them and strapping them to the arms of the chair.   
  
By the end, Eddie looks like some kind of off-beat Hannibal Lecter, sans a bite mask. Before the orderly can approach again, Waylon slips behind the chair himself and pulls it out backward, prompting the guards to take a few steps back. Dr. Clark's eyebrows are at her hairline as Waylon carefully maneuvers the heavy chair into a position facing her. Eddie's so large that his head reaches Waylon's chest when seated, and Waylon leans close enough to feel his body heat, hoping it's enough to keep him calm.  
  
"We'll make sure it's all very quick," Dr. Clark says after a beat, all business now that they're both out of the cell.  
  
"So considerate," Eddie bites out. The veins are popping in his neck. Waylon puts a hand on his shoulder soothingly, but he's not sure if it has much effect. Either way, he agrees with Dr. Clark. This is all borrowed time.  
  
Dr. Clark leads the group through the main room and then down the same hallway they'd taken Waylon the first time he'd been up here. Waylon continues to push the chair, the orderly following closely; Waylon can't help but be reminded of the other orderly who drugged him the night before and keeps casting suspicious looks over his shoulder, until the man finally takes the hint and backs off. In the hall, the blinds have all been pulled on the windows to the first large room, which Waylon recalls was full of doctors and patients performing tests. The second room is entirely empty this time, and the guards spread out through it. Dr. Clark keeps her distance, and Dr. Lin steps forward.  
  
They run through the same medical exam that Waylon underwent, but they keep Eddie strapped tight, so they skip a few parts, particularly the reflexes, and prostate, thank christ. They check his injuries, Dr. Lin carefully palpating his nose to confirm it's set, and Eddie clearly fighting to keep from biting her hand. Waylon makes a big show of reluctance when Dr. Lin tries to take blood, more concerned than assertive, but she doesn't know how to play along, so she just stares at him in confusion until Dr. Clark steps up and does it.  
  
"We need to make sure he's healthy," she says. "You want your husband to be healthy, don't you?"  
  
He bites his lip and glares at her, and at Eddie's thick dark blood filling the vial at the crook of his arm. Eddie is barely registering the tests at this point, simply staring at Waylon, a curious expression on his face.  
  
"You put so many pills in him, it's a wonder that it's still blood coming out," he answers, keeping his voice meek. He rubs at Eddie's other arm, and feels the flesh goosepimple under his fingertips.  
  
"It's alright, Darling," Eddie says suddenly, placatingly. "I barely feel it."  
  
Waylon twitches his eyebrows. Eddie is attempting to soothe HIM. It makes him feel oddly warm. And is probably ideal. The less he focuses on his own discomfort, the better. Dr. Clark seems pleased.  
  
Dr. Lin steps back over for the rest of the exam. She carefully checks his nose and mouth, his ears and eyes. Eddie keeps glancing at Waylon whenever she requests that he do something, before reluctantly doing it. Open your mouth, turn your head, cough. She lingers on his eyes, glancing at Waylon as she does. Noting the similarity of the sclera, no doubt.  
  
After that they park him near the back and Waylon steps away while Dr. Lin administers a shortened version of the verbal psych test they had given him. She is friendly when she speaks with Eddie, and he is polite in return, as if they've been through this before. That feeling twists in Waylon's belly again, something like jealousy. But Eddie keeps cutting his eyes away to look at Waylon, and Dr. Lin's voice is oddly pinched by the end, and the unpleasant feeling fades.  
  
Dr. Clark informs him that the last step is the machine. Waylon is apprehensive, but it happens easily: he loosens all of the restraints and once Eddie's free, he lies down obediently, like he's done it a hundred times before.   
  
"We need Waylon to exit," Dr. Lin says from the other side of the glass observation window. "But he-"  
  
"Your _wife_ can stand in the control room and watch everything we do," Dr. Clark interrupts, giving Dr. Lin a look.   
  
Waylon piles the restraints on the chair, then notices Eddie watching him again, still lying prone on the slab that feeds into the machine. "Are you okay?"  
  
Eddie stares at him for a long second. "Are _you_ , Darling?"  
  
Waylon smiles, then shrugs. "Best I can be, under the circumstances."  
  
"That's... less than ideal," he replies with a frown.  
  
Waylon hesitates, then steps forward to the table. "I'll feel better when this is over." He pauses, then cautiously reaches up to touch the unscarred side of Eddie's face.  
  
The man looks shocked, and Waylon wonders if he's overstepped, freezing up. But the uncertainty quickly passes when Eddie closes his eyes and leans his face into Waylon's hand. "Darling..."  
  
Waylon strokes the side of his face, his unshaven jaw, the firm bones of his cheek. He pushes his fingers up into the man's hair, running them through the unwashed strands. Then he leans forward, oh so slowly, and presses his lips to the Groom's forehead. He hears Eddie's breathing pick up, savoring the living heat of him. Drowning in it.  
  
With a sigh, he steps away. As he moves to grab the chair and its cargo, he's stopped by a tug on his hand. He turns back and Eddie's hand is holding his.   
  
_We could have been beautiful._   
  
Waylon feels like the room physically lurches away from him, and he struggles to stay upright. He feels like he's going to vomit. The memory is vivid, the stink of the corpses suspended from the ceiling in the gymnasium, the sharp tang of blood as the Groom's intestines pour out onto the floor. The choke of blood in his throat as he dies. As Waylon leaves him to die.  
  
The rough skin of his hand and leather gloves around his own fingers as he makes a last desperate clutch to hold onto that precious thing that he wants to possess more than anything. Love? A wife? A mother?   
  
The silence and stillness as he collapses and Waylon sits with his camera in his lap and watches him for long minutes as he shakes and regains his breath. Looking for movement. Hearing nothing but the creak of the ropes above.  
  
Waylon has broken out in a sweat, his skin clammy. Eddie is looking at him with calm adoration. He lifts Waylon's hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles tenderly. "Until we're together again, my love."  
  
Waylon nods, not trusting his voice, and carefully pulls his hand free. He pushes the chair from the room and gives Eddie a last glance from the doorway. As a guard pushes the door closed, Eddie doesn't look away. Neither does Waylon.   
  
The door is a solid metal with no windows, so once out of sight, Waylon abandons the chair and follows one of the guards around the side of the small room containing the machine. The guard directs him into the even smaller neighboring room. It reminds him of the observation area in the split room, a small set of monitors and a larger viewing window running the length of the machine. Both of the women are there, with two guards crowded in behind him, and the same technician running the computers. The metal tray that Eddie is lying on has already started sliding into the main body of the machine, taking Eddie headfirst into it. Waylon makes eye contact with him for a few seconds before he's gone.  
  
"We just need you to lie still for a few minutes while we scan," Dr. Lin is saying through a mic. "If you start feeling claustrophobic or need a break, just let us know. We can hear you easily."  
  
"Just get it over with," Eddie snaps, his voice distant and echoing in the belly of the machine.  
  
Dr. Clark steps a little closer to him as the cameras begin their diagnostic scans and the data starts feeding onto the monitors. He notices she has the control for his ankle monitor in her hand.  
  
"You're doing an excellent job," she says with a smirk. He gives her a flat look. "I'm not joking. We couldn't take him out for more than ten minutes at a time before he'd start screaming at us. The only time we've been able to get him into the NEMRI machine was when they first brought him in and he was still unconscious."  
  
He's not really sure what to say to that, so he keeps quiet. That little twisted jealous part of him feels immensely satisfied by it, but he's determined to ignore it.  
  
The monitors are starting to display visuals, and Dr. Lin leans over them eagerly. "My god..."  
  
Dr. Clark steps forward as well, and with a glance at the guards, Waylon inches closer. Eddie's body is displayed in Xray on the screen, further layering appearing as the cameras inside work over him. He gets his first look at what he guesses is 'clouding'; parts of the scans are white and full of indiscernible shapes.  
  
Dr. Lin points at what Waylon guesses is Eddie's stomach. "The activity here is greatly reduced. But internal damage from the penetrating trauma is almost entirely healed. Only from a couple weeks ago!"  
  
Dr. Clark pulls up a closer shot at Eddie's head. "Increased activity in the head, most like the effects of the injuries to the face. Clouding over the abdomen corresponds to the bruising as well. Strong evidence that the nanotech really is responsible for the advanced healing rate." She leans back and crosses her arms, lost in thought. "Murkoff's data doesn't say anything about this. Why is it healing them?"  
  
"Weapons maintenance," Waylon murmurs. Both doctors pivot toward him, and he bristles, biting his mouth shut.  
  
"No," Dr. Clark says. "Go ahead. You worked on this thing."  
  
Waylon swallows. "Their goal was to develop weapon technology, with human beings as a component. It would make sense that there were maintenance protocols built in that would keep the weapon functional. Including the human parts."  
  
Dr. Clark makes a humming sound. "The Engine had life support pods attached to it, though. The nanotech was meant to act as the weapon, not maintenance."  
  
Waylon shrugs. "In absence of the pods, maybe it... adapted."  
  
Dr. Lin is looking at him uncomfortably, while Dr. Clark remains completely absorbed. "Steve, pull up full body and run the EMP program."  
  
"What? EMP?" Waylon barks. "You're trying to disable them?! What if you kill him?!"  
  
"Follow up with an X-ray burst." She leans away from the technician and doesn't take her eyes from the screen as the programs run, the clouding shifting in obvious reactions to the assaults. "Relax, Park. We've run the same programs on you and every other patient we've had up here. You didn't even notice it. So far it's had no effect on the nanomachines. Nothing has, except harming the hosts, which only spurs them into action."  
  
"You hit me with EMP and X-rays?!" Waylon asks incredulously, stepping closer. One of the guards jerks a little in his direction.  
  
"And half a dozen other things which I'm not going to talk about, since they're classified Murkoff tech." She looks at him squarely then, gesturing with the remote to remind him it's there. "Nothing's had an effect. Those little guys are sturdy."  
  
He fumes silently as more diagnostics complete. He thought they were investigating the potential of the nanotech. He feels stupid that he didn't consider the possibility that they were looking for weaknesses as well.   
  
Dr. Clark takes over a second monitor and appears to be compiling test results. "This should be more than enough to satisfy Murkoff for now." She glances back at Waylon again. "If you keep him compliant we'll be able to keep putting them off, you understand?"  
  
Waylon shakes his head. "If you keep hitting us with that shit then you'll kill us all anyway."  
  
"Our task is determining if we can subdue the nanites without harming the host, while studying the effects they're having on the hosts," she says almost absentmindedly as she continues to type. "Murkoff has a whole other program for testing how killing the host effects the nanites." She glances over her shoulder once more, her face in shadow from the backlighting of the bright monitors. "When our subjects fail to offer us new data, that's where they'll go, Waylon. Eddie, you, everyone in this facility. So as long as you cooperate, you don't have to worry about that. Your bodies are experiencing an ongoing process, and we're all very eager to see how that process ends."  
  
Dr. Lin is looking between them with increasing discomfort. Waylon takes a trembling breath. "Why are you telling me this?"  
  
"You're never getting away from Murkoff, Mr. Park," she says, turning back to the monitor. "I'd prefer to keep as many test subjects as we can, for as long as we can, which means keeping you compliant. But if you try to escape, if you cause trouble... Murkoff will remove you from our care. Our work is hindered. And you..." She stands, collecting a small USB drive from the side of one monitor, and tucking it into her pocket. "You end up dead. Or worse."  
  
She steps close to him and, through her teeth, she growls, " _So be good_."  
  
"Are you brutes just about done?" Eddie's tinny voice interrupts through the speakers. Waylon jumps, his back bumping the wall behind him. He didn't even notice that he was backing up. His shirt has soaked through between the shoulder blades with sweat.  
  
Dr. Lin jumps forward, grabbing her mic headset from the desk. "Y-yes, we're just finishing up, Eddie. Just another minute or two and then we'll send Way- um, your wife, back in to see you."  
  
Eddie's unhappy sigh echoes through the speaker, but he doesn't argue. Waylon inches toward the door, eager to collect him before he becomes too impatient and does something rash.  
  
Steve, the technician, clears his throat and leans back. "Dr. Clark? We're all finished. Clear to eject?"  
  
Dr. Clark holds Waylon's gaze for a long moment. "It would be wise to keep this to yourself, Park. The rest of the patients are in various fragile states, information like this could start a panic. And then were would you be?" She nods at Steve over her shoulder. "Let him out, before he damages the machine."  
  
Waylon takes the opportunity to slip away and into the hall. The guards near the door perk, but seeing the testing process is nearing an end, relax. Waylon pads down the hall and takes the wheelchair in hand, squeezing the handles tightly in his sweaty palms in an attempt to ground himself. His teeth are chattering.   
  
A few moments later a guard pops the door and Waylon pushes the chair through. Eddie is already sitting up on the slab, preoccupied with glaring through the observation window, but he turns to look the moment the door opens. His face splits in a smile. Then fades a little as Waylon steps closer, his distress clear. "Is something wrong, Darling?"  
  
Waylon meets his eyes, his mouth opening and closing. What could he say? What could he _ever_ say?  
  
Overcome, he steps closer and throws his arms around Eddie's broad chest, burying his face there. Eddie is rigid with shock at first, but then practically dissolves and wraps around him, making soothing noises. His pectorals are firm against Waylon's forehead through his papery gown, and Waylon can't find it in himself to feel guilty for rubbing his cheek against them, soaking in the warmth of him.  
  
A wife would do this. It's nothing more than what she would do.   
  
Right?


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter featuring a profoundly bisexual Waylon Park.

Waylon is in a daze as they return to the cell. Dr. Clark vanishes, and they're escorted by Dr. Lin and a small crew of guards. Eddie keeps glancing back at him as he pushes the chair. Dr. Lin seems shaky, but keeps saying something about an optimistic outlook.   
  
The reverse process of removing Eddie's restraints is quick. The chair is pulled from the room and the door locked. As Waylon feeds the set of cuffs back through the slot under the window, he sees a hand wave in front of his face. When he startles and looks up, he realizes Dr. Lin has been asking a question.  
  
"Sorry," she says, then shrinks back when Eddie appears at his elbow, looming.  
  
"No, I'm sorry. What did you say?" Waylon says, giving Eddie a glance. He looks calm enough.  
  
"Just asking if you had any requests for lunch. Or, anything. Dr. Clark said we could reward you." Her eyes dart up to Eddie, before resettling on Waylon. "That did go really well. You have no idea what it was like-"  
  
"I have some idea," Waylon deadpans.   
  
"Would steak would be out of the question?" Eddie asks. He looks down at Waylon, a dreamy expression on his face. "Perhaps candles? When's the last time we had a nice meal together, Darling?"  
  
"Oh. I'm not sure I even remember," Waylon answers easily. The roleplay is almost welcome. It focuses his thoughts, preventing them from scattering and amplifying the panic.  
  
"I, uh, can't do candles..." Dr. Lin answers, taking a note on her tablet. "But I'll see what I can do about the steak. And maybe a tablecloth?"  
  
It shakes Waylon out of his funk a little, wondering why she'd mention a tablecloth when they don't even have a proper dining table. Then he turns and actually looks at the cell.  
  
Eddie's tall hospital bed has been removed, replaced with a low cot matching Waylon's. The two beds are side by side between them and the toilet in the back. A small table and chairs has been set up where Waylon's bed had been. Waylon remembers the tube of lubricant he pushed under it, and scans for it almost frantically, not wanting to think about what would happen if Eddie found it. It appears that whoever changed the room must have collected it. Waylon would mourn for it, if he thought he was ever going to get a chance to masturbate again, but he doesn't, so he won't.   
  
It also smells cleaner, like it's been wiped down. The sheets are fresh. The metallic smell is still there, but the worst of the unwashed stink is gone. Now it's just him and Eddie who smell. Waylon picks at his damp shirt unhappily.  
  
"Showers," Waylon says. "Fresh clothes."  
  
Dr. Lin looks uncertain. "Clothes we can do. Showers, not so much."  
  
"How do you bathe patients in these rooms normally?" Waylon asks, bewildered. "Non-Murkoff patients?"  
  
"We sedate and wipe them down. Normally no one's in these rooms for long periods of time, usually just a transition period, then-" she catches herself rambling and stops nervously.  
  
"Sponge baths," Waylon says with a groan. Eddie groans along with him, to Waylon's surprise. It's strangely satisfying to feel allied with him, even on something so silly as bathing.  
  
Dr. Lin jots down a final note on her pad and heaves a sigh. She seems unsettled. He considers asking, but he honestly doesn't particularly care. Maybe she's disturbed by what she saw in the observation room, or what Dr. Clark had said. Maybe she's just upset that Eddie is obviously not treating her quite the same as he used to. He had called her Darling in the split room, Waylon recalls. Maybe she really _had_ wanted to play the wife.   
  
The thought taps a well of some kind of jealousy that he didn't even know he was capable of.  
  
"This med combo seems to be working well," she says finally, nodding toward Eddie. "We'll keep on it. Let us know if you notice any..." She trails off, but Waylon nods, clearly getting her meaning. Any tics or strange behavior. Trying to strangle him to death again. That kind of thing.  
  
Then she smiles tightly. "Someone will check in later. You can buzz us through the intercom if there are any emergencies. Have a good day." She taps the control panel under the window and disappears. The window is opaque again.  
  
Waylon is alone again with Eddie Gluskin.  
  
Eddie does not seem to have any particular problems with this. He meanders across the room and inspects the new arrangement, giving a dark look to the twin beds. Waylon watches him carefully, but so far, he's been calm and lucid. Waylon notes that there's nothing recreational in the cell, no books, magazines, no television. He's not particularly eager to find out what boredom does to the Groom.  
  
He's startled out of his thoughts by a squealing noise as Eddie pushes one of the beds flush with the other one. He grins proudly at Waylon. "Not perfect, but it'll have to do. Imagine, not allowing a married couple to sleep in the same bed. This institution is quite old fashioned."  
  
The laugh that bubbles up out of his belly seizes over him like some kind of hysteria. Waylon folds over with it, his body uncontrollable as the laughter takes him over, feeling his eyes tear up. Eddie, Mr. Misogyny himself, complaining about "old fashioned." Eddie pushing their beds together. Oh god, he's going to die in here.  
  
Eddie is chuckling and quirking an eyebrow at him from the other side of the beds. "You have a funny sense of humor, Darling."  
  
"I'm sorry," Waylon snorts, pulling himself together. "I got a little carried away."  
  
"I'll say," Eddie says, moving to rearrange the table a little farther from the toilet. It's futile, and he spends the next few minutes quietly rearranging the chairs and grimacing.  
  
The slot pops open, startling Waylon again, and some plastic wrapped sets of clothing slip through, along with a package of toiletries. The window remains tinted, with no indication of who is behind the delivery. Waylon moves with some hesitation to collect them, noting the sizing on the visible shirt tags.  
  
He turns to study the sink, considering the logistics of giving himself a bath in it, and then freezes, in complete, overwhelming horror.  
  
He's going to have to get naked. He's such a fucking idiot.  
  
Waylon was, until now, avoiding going too far down this line of thought. The very obvious and very real problem of his dick. If there's one thing he can be certain about, it's that Eddie Gluskin, really, really, really hates dicks.  
  
Eddie is giving him a strange look, and Waylon realizes he's frozen, clutching the plastic wrapped items to his chest in terror. Waylon forces a smile and unwinds himself, focusing his body on unwrapping the clothes and toiletries and sorting them on the bed.  
  
He's done so well. Playing along with Eddie, giving no challenge to his delusion. But Eddie looks at him and sees a wife, a woman, and how is he going to react when the clothes come off, and he sees his wife's _penis_?   
  
Waylon feels sick to his stomach with horror. Even if he can avoid this... What if Eddie tries to have _sex_ with him?  
  
Isn't that what you were after anyway? The little twisted voice asks him.  
  
That was a _fantasy_ , he argues. Then he realizes he's arguing with the voices in his head, and he grits his teeth.  
  
Eddie settles in the bed next to him, making him jump. The man's giving him a look tinged with concern. Another face that Waylon wouldn't have quite been able to imagine before, on Eddie. "Darling, you seem disturbed."  
  
Waylon heaves a sigh. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't like it, in here..."  
  
"With me?" Eddie asks darkly. Eddie's face hasn't changed, only his tone, but the fact that his mind jumped to that first is disconcerting.  
  
"The hospital," Waylon corrects urgently.   
  
Eddie makes a thoughtful humming sound, studying the clothing laid out on the bed. Waylon watches him for a second, but the man doesn't say anything further. He gulps and then steps forward, shifting the larger sized items toward Eddie. "These are yours, I think. They're still way too small for you, but the other set is even smaller..." He trails off. Eddie makes no move to take them, just staring at them placidly. It's reminding Waylon uncomfortably of the slow reaction times he had the night before, and where they lead. He's still scrambling for some plan of distraction when Eddie looks up.  
  
"You said something before, Darling," he says quietly, his bloodshot eyes tracing the contours of the window, the locked door. "About leaving."  
  
Waylon pauses, recollecting. "Both of us," he says quickly. "Leaving here, together."  
  
"If I _trust_ you..."  
  
Waylon bites his lip. Eddie hadn't commented on that part before. Waylon didn't even think he'd been listening.   
  
"It seemed a strange thing to say," the man continues. "Not only because you're my dear wife, and of course I trust you. But also," he cocks his head, and grins. "I'm a _murderer_ , Darling. I'm never supposed to leave."  
  
Waylon's breath leaves him in a rush. The arteries and veins around his heart lurch in unison, choking him.  
  
"And you know that," Eddie continues in that cool, sonorous voice, turning at last to study the clothing on the bed. "Which is why it seemed such a strange thing to say."  
  
He feels like he's disintegrating, shaking apart at the seams, as he watches Eddie 'tsk' quietly and pick at the seams of his new clothes. He's not sure what he expected. The Groom was easy. He lived in a vintage fantasy, the gentleman looking for the perfect wife in a world of girls who were not good enough. According to notes he'd read in Mount Massive, the former incarnation of Eddie, before the Engine, didn't even seem capable of recognizing his victims were dead. The fact that this Eddie knows what he is, and can admit it, is not something Waylon was expecting to deal with. What's the role of the wife in this situation?   
  
How insane, really, is Eddie?  
  
Waylon swallows hard. He feels dehydrated. Most likely from all of the sweat he's poured into his clothes today.   
  
The man is still sitting calmly on the bed, shirt in his hands. There's a wrinkle between his eyebrows as he scrutinizes the stitching and finds it lacking. Still, so far, no indication that he's going to snap. Waylon swallows again. He knows what he wants to do next is a mistake. But he has to try.  
  
Then he steps close and presses his cheek to Eddie's, his lips just against his ear. He wraps his arm over his shoulder in the same quick motion, laying his hand against the back of his muscular neck. Eddie' tenses under him, breath quickening. Waylon feels the scratch of his scruffy jaw on his cheek.   
  
"This isn't a real hospital, not really," Waylon whispers. "You know that, right?"  
  
Eddie shudders against him, but doesn't reply.  
  
"The people behind this aren't law enforcement or medical staff, they're a private company that's profiting off our torture. That's why we need to get out, Eddie." Waylon pauses, panting, desperately hoping some of it is sinking in. "That's why we need to _hurt_ them."  
  
There's a hitch of breath in his ear, but still no reply. Waylon feels a hand creep up his hip, firm fingers pressing the fabric into his flesh. He trembles, and just as he's about to pull back and make some excuse, he feels the sharp edge of teeth against his ear.  
  
"You really do say such strange things," Eddie's voice purrs. Waylon deflates.  
  
He feels Eddie's lips stretch against his ear, the unmistakeable shape of a grin. Eddie growl, "I like it."  
  
As Waylon as parsing what that could possibly mean, as well as plotting to extricate himself from the Groom's wandering hand, there's a thunking behind him. He whirls away, and Eddie, thankfully, lets him go.  
  
Their lunch has arrived. Along with a small paper tablecloth, which Eddie excitedly collects and unfolds over their small table. "Darling, would you like to clean up and change before we eat? You are the one who requested it, after all." He looks at Waylon over his shoulder, still smiling happily. "We'll call it a date. Like we're a young, new couple again."  
  
Waylon stiffens at the mention of the clothing, looking at it for a moment in horror.   
  
"It's rather distasteful, but please use the curtain around the toilet to change, Darling? Who knows what kind of perverts might be peeping at us from behind that window," Eddie says, glaring past Waylon's shoulder at the tinted window.  
  
Waylon feels like he could cry. He nearly collapses on the bed as he moves to collect his items. Of course, the fucking toilet.   
  
Ten minutes earlier, Waylon was sure he was about to get his penis and testicles removed barehanded. The actual experience is easy. Waylon washes his face in the sink and wipes down his exposed skin with a provided washcloth, then tucks himself away beside the toilet with a last glance at Eddie. The man is almost entirely preoccupied with arranging their lunch on the table. As Waylon pulls his shirt off and gives his upper body a quick scrub, he catches himself thinking that it's almost cute. He can see why Dr. Lin developed her crush, if Eddie was acting like this, even if it was just a short while in each session, before the seams in his patience started to show.   
  
Waylon juggles the damp cloth as he pulls on his fresh shirt. He listens to the Groom fussing for a long minute, and then drops his pants and underwear in one swift motion. He carefully maneuvers the bulky part of the ankle monitor through the legs, pulling his feet from his slippers. Then he runs the wet cloth over his privates and down his legs, before he drops it on his discarded clothing and then slips his feet into the fresh underpants. He already feels better, not as good as he'd be with a shower, he's sure, but less sticky and smelly after clearing the grime, salt and sweat from his skin. As he hikes up his pants, he breathes a sigh of relief. It's over. He'll have to do it again, probably, but if they can establish this as routine, then he can do this. He can stay alive. The scent of lunch has filled the room, surprisingly appetizing, and it's with some perhaps naive level of optimism that he sweeps the curtain aside and steps out.  
  
Eddie has moved to the sink, where he's wetting his own washcloth. He's shirtless, apparently about to wipe down his arms and chest.  
  
Waylon stares. He goes blank.  
  
Because Eddie Gluskin is _exactly the type of guy Lisa would pick for him._  
  
His body is still littered with scrapes and bruises, a nasty greenish purple spreading over a significant area of his ribcage, but the shape of his body is, simply, _deific_.  
  
His body is well muscled, as Waylon already guessed from his significant strength, but he didn't predict the perfect shape of his pectorals, curving under the dark perfect nubs of his nipples. There's a scant growth of chest hair just below his collarbone, just a few small wiry twists, and then a delicate happy trail from his belly button down the slightly rounded shape of his stomach, the hair thicker where it disappears under the hem of his pants. He's broad at the shoulder, tucking in at the waist, giving the impression of narrow hips, but still considerably wider than Waylon's. Without the shirt hanging over it, Waylon can see the curve of Eddie's ass under the tight hospital pants, and the thick bulge of his upper thighs. Overall, not bad for a forty-plus year old.  
  
As he watches, Eddie bends and splashes a good amount of water on his face, rubbing around his hair and the back of his neck with the washcloth. His hands are thick fingered and square where they press against his own face, his own neck and shoulders. As he stands, the water dribbles downward, cutting glistening paths down the slopes of muscle. Waylon could swear he sees the man's nipples tighten.  
  
Waylon realizes he's literally salivating. He flushes and turns away, wishing he could blame it on the food. It's positively Pavlovian. He was conditioned for this. He tries to dredge up some thoughts that will kill his developing erection, but he glances back at Eddie just then, unable to help himself, and Eddie's looking over his shoulder at him. He's smirking knowingly. How the man could be so perceptive about some things and downright blind about others, Waylon's not sure he'll ever understand.  
  
"May I ask you to help me with my back, Darling," Eddie says sweetly, and Waylon stiffens, in more ways than one.   
  
He could say no. He should say no. But he's already moving forward. "O-of course..."  
  
Eddie Gluskin is, by Waylon's estimate, a head and a half taller than he is. He's not even shoulder height, his eye level hitting Eddie around the bicep. The men he and Lisa had been with were never quite this big, although it might be Waylon's perceptions toying with him as well. To Waylon, certainly, there has never been a man as existentially large as Eddie Gluskin. Waylon steps close to his body, a pillar of strength and violence, and he shivers.  
  
Eddie turns and hands him a washcloth, wet from the sink, slightly soapy. "Don't be shy," he grins, that manic grin that touches his eyes. God, Waylon likes it.  
  
Waylon has to stretch a bit to clean Eddie's shoulders, and he shies a bit from the hem of his pants. He's ginger around the bruises, but Eddie doesn't complain. The man busied himself at the sink at first, cleaning his nails, but as Waylon works his way down his back, he goes still, his head falling forward. The muscles under Waylon's hand go from firm to pliable. At one point, Waylon strokes down the small of his back, along his spine, gentle around the still raw and healing gash where he was skewered. Eddie groans, deep in his chest, and Waylon hesitates, afraid he'd hurt him.   
  
"Keep going, Darling," Eddie says, voice unmistakably thick with arousal, that breathy voice he had used when he was stroking Waylon's thighs on the table in Mount Massive.  
  
Waylon flushes, secretly pleased that his attentions could bring Eddie to this state, and secretly mortified by how much he likes it.  
  
Haven't we already been over this, the voice murmurs.   
  
When he's finished Eddie's back, Waylon doesn't wait to be asked, quickly starting on Eddie's sides as well. He's gentle along the bruised ribcage, but he still feels Eddie tense as he runs his hands over it, so he doesn't linger. He carefully raises Eddie's arms with one hand while pushing the cloth up under his armpits, the hair there sparse as well, and strokes along the underside of his bicep firmly, hoping the man isn't ticklish. The last thing he wants is an elbow in the face if he hits the wrong spot. Although it would probably help with the unwanted erection.  
  
As he finishes Eddie's arms, he opens his mouth to announce that he's finished. Then Eddie turns toward him, slowly, like he's trying not to scare him.  
  
The man's face is flushed slightly, his brow pinched in that familiar way, deepening the shadows around his eyes and giving him a wicked expression. But he's not smiling, mouth set tight in a line. Waylon freezes, assessing himself, his own pink face, his half hard dick which is thankfully hidden in the baggy folds of his pants. Eddie just looks at him, and Waylon identifies the expression then. Of someone who was not expecting something, but now seeing the possibility, wants it.  
  
Later, Waylon will blame his lizard brain. He wets the cloth in the sink, then raises his arm and rubs it over Eddie's chest. Eddie moans again, his eyes falling closed, his mouth falling open. Waylon stares at it as he rubs the washcloth over his pecs and abdomen, his mouth pink and wet around the sharp brightness of his teeth.  
  
God, he wants to kiss him. He wants that mouth against his skin. That mouth, calling him 'Darling.' That mouth snarling, calling him a slut.  
  
Waylon rubs lower, against the slight softness of his lower belly, the curly hair there. Then he pauses, looking down, his brain rewiring.  
  
It's very clear that Eddie is not hard. At all. The tightness of the pants shows the slight bulge of him, as big as Waylon would have expected, but clearly still soft.  
  
It's like a douse of cold water. Not just enough to finally thwart his persistent erection, but a flood, a deluge of guilt and horror washing over him. First, a reminder that this man isn't his lover, has no interest in men, and will probably kill him when he eventually accidentally sees his penis. Second... a realization.  
  
In Mount Massive, Eddie Gluskin was a monster, an enemy to be defeated in order for Waylon to obtain his goal of freedom. He had been exploited, the same as all of them, but none of them could be blamed for the violence they enacted against each other, in that place. Here though... as dangerous as he still is, Eddie is ultimately a sick man. His childhood abuse made him what he is. And here Waylon is, playing into his fantasy in order to exploit him for his own benefit. And for Murkoff's benefit.   
  
The man is obviously starved for positive physical contact. But with all his talk about wives and kissing, he's not aroused by Waylon's touch.  
  
It makes Waylon feel ill. It feels like some kind of sexual assault.  
  
It also reinforces something inside of Waylon. If he does manage to use Eddie to get out of here, the escape has to include Eddie. He can't abandon him here.   
  
He thinks of Dennis, downstairs, painting flowers for his sister. Of Miles Upshur, an innocent, rotting away in a cell that Waylon put him in. He had blown the whistle on Murkoff to end this suffering. He can't abandon any of them here. Even if it means waiting, and waiting, and waiting. Even if it means dying.  
  
When Waylon looks up, Eddie is looking at him curiously, still red in the face. "You look like you're a million miles away, Darling."  
  
Waylon smiles shakily, moving to rinse the washcloth in the sink. Eddie grabs his arm.  
  
"I want to kiss you so badly," he says, his voice low and rough.   
  
Waylon keeps smiling. "You don't want them to see... Remember?"  
  
Eddie grimaces, suddenly shy, eyes darting to the side, thinking about that opaque window and who could be behind it. His hand slips down along Waylon's arm, coming to rest on his hand, then squeezing.  
  
"Our food will get cold," he murmurs.  
  
Waylon's face feels like carved plastic, keeping that smile locked onto his face. "You should use the curtain to change the rest of your clothes. They don't have the right to look at you."  
  
Eddie rubs his face as he recovers, grimacing. "These perverts have likely seen it all already. I woke up here in nothing but a paper shirt, my dear."  
  
Waylon sneers as he thinks about the doctors and nurses, stitching him up and plugging him into machines, their hands on him, this huge, scary beast of a man that he wants to protect at all costs. "They don't have the right," he mutters.   
  
Eddie places both hands gently on his face and kisses his forehead, freezing Waylon in place. When Eddie pulls back, there's a soft, loving smile on his face. Waylon shivers.  
  
"It's so sweet," Eddie says. "How much you care about me."  
  
After a few seconds, just before Waylon starts to squirm, Eddie pulls away, gathering the rest of his clothes and the washcloth. "You can go wait at the table. I'll finish up and join you in just a moment."  
  
Waylon obeys as Eddie slides behind the curtain. It's a tighter fit for him, and he jostles the curtain with his elbow more than once. Waylon attempts to distract himself, checking over the food with bland interest. His appetite has waned a bit, but it's working its way back up the more he solidifies his resolve. To get all of them out. Somehow.  
  
When Eddie emerges, clothes clean and as freshly bathed as he can be, he gives Waylon a big smile. The man looks thrilled as he comes to settle himself in the chair opposite Waylon. He's so big, his knees knock the underside of the small table as he sits. "This is lovely, isn't it, Darling?"  
  
He hums and nods. "It was a really good idea, Eddie."  
  
The man grins wider, pulling the covers off their trays with a flourish. The steaks don't look half bad, still hot despite their earlier distractions. There's a side of potatoes and a side of greens for each, with two large bottles of water. There's also a single large slice of cake on a plate between them, presumably to share. He's not sure how to feel about that, but Eddie gives him a wink when he sees Waylon's noticed, and Waylon decides to fall into his role and let himself be quietly happy about it. He gives Eddie a coy smile in return.  
  
"I find myself overwhelmingly grateful for even these small things," Eddie sighs. "When I was without you, it felt like an eternity. And every moment with you feels like a blessing."  
  
Waylon blushes, attacking his steak with his plastic knife and fork. "Thank you, Eddie."  
  
The man follows his lead, and they discover the meat cuts easily with the dull knife, tender and expertly cooked. Waylon wonders if they just ordered in. Otherwise, they have some top notch kitchen staff.   
  
"When you were away from me," Eddie begins thoughtfully. "I know you must have missed me terribly. I hope there were no other hardships you had to concern yourself with."  
  
Waylon stiffens. This thread of conversation seems tricky. He could lie and tell him that there were none, and not risk upsetting him. But he also needs that solidarity. For Eddie to know they're in the same boat, together.  
  
He settles on, "It was... very difficult."  
  
"Did the doctors treat you poorly?" Eddie presses. "Or the security men? You have such a delicate constitution, I hate to think of those brutes and half-wits laying their hands on you, like they have with me."  
  
Waylon flounders. He's sure that in Eddie's mind, there's a deeper point to this line of conversation that he's not seeing. It can't simply be about his well being.   
  
"They were... impolite," Waylon says finally. "But nothing like what I saw them do to you."  
  
Eddie's smile fades a bit, and Waylon realizes his mistake. Eddie hadn't recognized his 'wife' during the encounter with the guards, not until the end. What if he's remembering that, what Waylon did? Or... there's always the chance that Eddie will eventually recall more, way back, when Waylon was standing in the control room of the Morphogenic Engine, and Eddie slammed his hands into the reinforced glass and begged him to stop it.   
  
"I know you're so much stronger than me," Waylon continues quickly. "But I still worry for you. I don't like to see them hurt you."  
  
The man's gaze remains keen, but he replies smoothly, "Hm... I don't especially like cooperating with their dehumanizing treatment, but, I will make an effort to, if it means exposing you to less violence."  
  
Waylon bites his lip. "It's not... I don't want you to stop fighting them just because of that. I don't like cooperating either..." He leans over the table, speaking lowly. "But there are more indirect ways to push back."  
  
Eddie takes a slow bite of his meat, eyes locked on Waylon's as he chews. "I'm listening."  
  
Fuck it, he thinks. Waylon leans as close as he can, putting a hand up to his chin to block his mouth and smother his words, in case anyone's trying to listen in from outside. "There are more patients downstairs. They're prepared to riot. If we choose our moment, we can take this facility."  
  
Eddie snorts. "They tried that before. From my admittedly vague recollections, it didn't go particularly _well_."  
  
Waylon pauses, surprised. He had thought that Eddie wasn't entirely aware of their actual circumstances, much less the events that lead to them. He's not sure how this fits in with the wife delusion. He's trying to think of a way to push the subject when Eddie continues, "Ah, I don't want to talk about such pessimistic things. I only wanted to express how happy I am to have these moments," he reaches across the table and takes Waylon's small hand in his. "However fleeting they may be."  
  
Their fingers slide together, Eddie's hand warm in his. Waylon's still disoriented, unsure what narrative Eddie is living in now. This would all be so much easier if he could just _ask_.   
  
A bulb pops on in his head. He knows it might be stupid; if the narrative isn't fully constructed, then the discrepancies could trigger him. But if it works... it could answer so many questions. And ultimately, he will have to try something, at one point or other.   
  
"Eddie... Tell me the story of our wedding?"  
  
Eddie smirks, quirking an eyebrow. "Silly! You were there!"  
  
Waylon turns his head to the side bashfully, gripping Eddie's hand tighter in his. "I know, but, I love to hear your voice, and even more so when it's about the most important event in our lives..." He trails off, the excuse feeling weak.  
  
But the man actually _blushes_. Waylon feels giddiness bubble up at the sight of the Groom looking flattered. It's so human, so endearing.  
  
"Well, Darling," he says, puffing his chest and wiping his mouth one handed with a paper napkin. "It started from the first moment I saw you. I remember thinking, for certain, 'That's the one I'm going to marry.'"  
  
Waylon nods enthusiastically, abandoning his own half eaten lunch. He lifts Eddie's hand and tucks it into his chest, pressing his other hand against his wrist, trying his best to make it look affectionate.  
  
"I remember... white roses and babies' breath, for our flowers. And I must have made a dozen dresses for you, but none were quite right. Then there was that tiny chapel..." he pauses then, staring out past Waylon, a glassy look in his eyes. The smile is slowly fading from his face.  
  
"You looked so handsome in your suit," Waylon urges, trying to pull him back into the fantasy, before he starts recalling the messy details.  
  
Eddie grins, but the distant look doesn't diminish. "And you were perfect, in the end, despite all my fussing. I can hardly remember anything else, I was so taken by your lovely face. So... so beautiful..."  
  
His eyebrows begin to pinch in the middle, in distress, or maybe anger. Waylon's brain is screaming a red alert.  
  
"I love you so much, honey," Waylon blurts. The nickname surprises him. He's never used a nickname, not with Lisa, or even with his boys. But apparently, 'Eddie's wife' does.  
  
The man's face _blooms_. His cheeks go pink and his gaze refocuses, and he's grinning ear to ear. "As I love you. I remember thinking that, in those last moments, as I held your hand." He tugs Waylon's hand toward him and bends to press his lips to the knuckles. "About how beautiful you were, and how much I loved you." He presses another kiss to his skin, and holds it for long seconds. Maybe even minutes. Waylon's not paying attention.  
  
"I said things..." Eddie murmurs against his hand. "Such lewd things, to you. It was so improper..."  
  
Waylon stiffens, the words flooding back to him. The names he called him. Promises to 'fill him up.' God.  
  
"I liked it," Waylon whispers.  
  
Eddie looks up at him sharply. "You like it when men say crude things to you?"  
  
"I like it when YOU say those things to me..." Waylon corrects urgently, face hot. "Only... only you..."  
  
The man stares at him darkly, and then gently spreads the fingers of Waylon's hand, still tightly gripped in his own. And then he presses his lips to the web of skin at the base of his thumb. Waylon's breath stutters.  
  
"I'd do those things to you now..." he breathes. "If _they_ weren't watching..."  
  
His tongue flicks out agains Waylon's palm. Waylon twists his other hand into the fabric over his thigh, giving himself a hard pinch. He can't get hard again. He's not going to get hard again.   
  
Eddie pulls away then, somewhat sheepishly, lowering Waylon's hand before pulling his own away, straightening his shirt, and taking a deep breath. "Oh, you _test_ me, Darling."  
  
Waylon breathes out a heavy laugh, pulling his hand back and clenching it under the table, rubbing his other hand over his hot cheeks. "You're not alone, there."  
  
"I think we should keep our conversation a bit more tedious, for both our sakes," Eddie says, collecting his utensils and moving to finish the remains of his lunch.   
  
"Ah," Waylon says, shakily following suit. "Yeah, good idea."   
  
"Perhaps we can discuss the weather? Although, I don't think I've seen a window to the outdoors since I woke up in here..."  
  
"It's snowing out," Waylon says. "Or, it was, earlier this week."  
  
Eddie's eyes light up. "Ah, how I've missed _snow_!"  
  
After that, the conversation goes surprisingly easily. Waylon recounts his brief visits to the courtyard, leaving out some of the more challenging details, and Eddie seems to really listen. When they finish their food, Eddie pushes his tray to the side and cuts into the slice of cake between them, airplaning a bite of it toward Waylon. He hesitates, imagining what dying from a plastic fork through the back of his throat would feel like, then imagining what dying from a plastic fork through the eye would feel like, and finally opens up. Eddie is careful and precise, slipping the fork between his lips, letting it drag on his bottom lip as he pulls it out. Waylon lets him, and then reciprocates. Eddie catches the fork between his teeth playfully as Waylon moves to pull it out, before slowly letting it slip free, grinning. It's cute. It's like a real date. Waylon can't help but picture Dr. Clark or Dr. Lin on the other side of the window, giggling at them, and it sours it all somewhat. Reminding him that this intimacy is just a play act on his part.  
  
Waylon clears the table when they've finished, depositing the trays and plates back through the slot, while Eddie rifles through the small pouch of toiletries. He pops up, triumphantly, with a deck of cards. Waylon raises his eyebrows. "What are those doing in there?"  
  
"It's the only thing they'll give me to pass the time," Eddie says, rolling his eyes. "My previous deck was an unfortunate victim in one of my... er, incidents. I requested a new one some time ago, but that dreadful woman in charge said I'd have to 'earn it.'" He shakes it at Waylon. "Which I suppose I have. Would you like to play?"  
  
"I don't know many games," Waylon answers, smiling awkwardly.  
  
The man is already heading to the small table, eagerly. "Well, we have plenty of time to learn. What do you know?"  
  
"Um," Waylon carefully slides back into his chair across from the man. "Poker, sort of. Go Fish."  
  
Eddie laughs, not a chuckle, but a genuine, loud laugh. Waylon warms at the sound. "Oh dear. Well, let me teach you a little game called 'gin...'"  
  
The rest of the day passes in the same uncomplicated way. Waylon relaxes even more as Eddie teaches him the rules to gin, and by the time dinner arrives, he's playing easily, only asking a question every few rounds. The conversation is focused on the game, which Eddie knows expertly, and is unchallenging. Over dinner, a cut of fried fish and fries, greasy but light after their heavier lunch, Eddie mostly talks about the rules of cribbage and bemoaning the fact that they don't have a board. Waylon listens and nods. After dinner, Eddie suggests with a quirk of his lips that they play a game of Go Fish. Waylon tries hard not to think about the last time he'd played the game, with his boys, and he mostly succeeds, the memories taking on a bittersweet quality. They play until the lights dim, indicating it's bed time.  
  
Waylon brushes his teeth with one of the new toothbrushes that came in the small toiletry kit. Eddie quickly moves to do the same, although it seems clear he hadn't been concerned much about his oral hygiene before. Waylon sits on the nearest bed, toeing off his slippers and pushing them underneath. Eddie eagerly rounds the second bed, double checking that they're tightly pushed together.   
  
He thinks he should be more nervous about this. But they slept together the night before, and it was fine. So he's not going to overthink it. Whatever happens, happens.  
  
Waylon tucks himself under the blanket and moments later, Eddie's there, curling up behind him, hooking his arm over and pulling him into his chest. Waylon lets him. Eddie sighs contentedly as they settle, and minutes later, the lights go out completely. He breathes into Waylon's ear, "Maybe I could kiss you, in the dark..."  
  
Waylon shivers. "A-are you sure they won't see?"  
  
Eddie sighs again, less contentedly, and doesn't reply.  
  
It's comfortable.  
  
In the dark, Waylon tries very hard to stay comfortable. But as they tend to do before sleep, his thoughts wander.  
  
He thinks about how, at the end of the day, Eddie Gluskin is aware that he's a serial killer. He's killed women. He knows it. And he's at least partially aware of what he did in Mount Massive.  
  
And here he is, with his 'wife' in his arms. Waylon hasn't forgotten that Eddie most likely used that sweetness and charm to lure victims. With a sociopath, it doesn't mean anything, that he's _nice_.  
  
Does being his wife really mean anything? This imagined narrative he created, does it mean anything? Would it really make him important enough, for Eddie to not use him to sate that dark need, the same as those other women and men? Is the fictional person Eddie thinks he is really too important to kill?  
   
Or is that his _purpose_?  
  
Waylon forces his body to relax into the warmth of the Groom's strong arms. He knows it won't be perfect, and not even good, all of the time. But it's like Eddie said. He'll happily take these moments. However few and fleeting they might be. However tainted. He has nothing else left.  
  
In the early hours of the morning, Eddie hurts him again.  
  



	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this one there's sex with some pretty dubious consent between some people who are not getting any of the help they need or deserve. This is based on a super fucked up horror game so hopefully y'all knew what you were getting into.

The first thing he feels is heat. Then, the hot gust of carbon dioxide across his cheek.   
  
He wakes slowly, disoriented. He doesn't quite remember where he is. For a moment.  
  
When he'd gone to sleep, he was tucked under his own blanket, and Eddie was tucked under his, pressed together but separated by the layers of fabric. In the night, apparently Eddie pulled the edges of the blankets from between the two beds and slipped under Waylon's, spooning tight to his back. His body is burning hot with only their thin patient clothes separating their skin. Eddie is rubbing his large body against him, and Waylon can clearly feel that he's not hard, still. Waylon has the fleeting thought that he might not be capable of it. The childhood trauma, the experiments at Mount Massive, the drugs at Blue Garden.  
  
Then Eddie kisses him.   
  
He's looming over him, so the angle is awkward and clumsy. His lips press tight against the side of Waylon's mouth, hard enough for Waylon to feel the impression of his teeth, and then the wet muscle of his tongue presses at the seam of his mouth. Waylon is half asleep when it happens, so he doesn't clench his teeth or turn away, and then Eddie's tongue is in his mouth. Eddie groans.  
  
"Mph," Waylon grunts, sleepily kissing back, as he slowly becomes more aware of what's happening. The Groom’s hand is firm on his chest, pinching at the flesh there, before slipping to his belly, cupping it. It slips back up, then back down again.   
  
Stop, he thinks. Oh god, stop.  
  
"Eddie," he gasps as the man leans over him to get a better angle, breaking their kiss, pressing Waylon into the mattress. "Wake up, Eddie."  
  
"I'm _awake_. I just can't help myself, Darl-" Eddie whispers, as his hand slips down Waylon's belly and cups his half hard cock through his pants. And then freezes.  
  
Oh god. Oh fuck, oh fuck.  
  
Waylon is instantly not hard, but he's not sure it makes much difference; the man's hand is firm and tight over the unmistakeable bulge of his dick and testicles. He squirms a little, but he's held tight in the cage of Eddie's arms, against the solid muscle of his body. His body, which has tightened, immalleable as steel at his back.  
  
God, please.  
  
"What is this?" Eddie growls, and it's the voice of the Groom this time, vicious and hateful. "You've been hiding something from me."  
  
"No," Waylon gasps. "Eddie, please-"  
  
"You thought you could fool me. You seemed like such a sweet girl. But you're hiding this... this _vulgar_ thing..." He squeezes tighter, bruising strength, and tears spring to the corners of Waylon's eyes. He sobs. He works his arm under the blankets and wraps it around Eddie's thick fingers, pushed between his clenching thighs, but he can't loosen them. In desperation, he focuses on the nanomachines, praying for them to act, to save him. They don't.  
  
"I really must be crazy. How else could I have married such a fucking _pervert_." Eddie's other hand slips up under his body, wrapping around Waylon's throat.  
  
"E-eddie, _honey_ ," Waylon says, desperately trying to keep his voice calm despite the tremble in it. "You're h-hurting me. You promised. You _promis_ -"  
  
He _stops_.  
  
The hand around Waylon's dick releases, still loosely cupping him, but no longer painfully. The other hand stays at his throat, just as slack. Waylon clings to Eddie's hands and sobs in relief, pushing at them impotently, but they're iron, immovable.  
  
Eddie grunts in his ear, and his body moves against him, like a spasm.  
  
That's when Waylon realizes that Eddie's cock is absolutely rock hard.  
  
"How could I have married... such a deviant _slut_..." Eddie groans into Waylon's hair, pushing his nose against Waylon's temple. He pushes his cock against the soft muscle of Waylon's ass. Waylon, god help him, feels a twinge of arousal shoot down to his balls, where those rough fingers are still pressing against them.  
  
"O-only for you," Waylon repeats through his tears.  
  
"Only for me," Eddie echoes, and his hand loosens further, his fingers pressing in to explore the shape of him through his pants. Waylon's cock twitches as they rub toward the base, and Eddie feels it, his breath hitching.   
  
"Only for my _husband_ ," Waylon says, and he rolls his hips carefully in Eddie's relaxed grip, pushing his ass harder against his cock. The man grunts, his breathing heavy, each breath trembling.  
  
You're sick, the voices in his head tell him, clear disdain in their tone. I don't give a shit, he answers.  
  
The man huffs suddenly, then releases Waylon's neck. Waylon sobs, covering it with a moan as Eddie pushes himself up over his small body, his groin still grinding against Waylon's ass. His hand slips away from Waylon's cock and up to his shoulder, where he pushes him until his shoulders are flat on the bed, his spine twisted as his hips are still locked sideways under the insistent press of Eddie's dick, one leg hitched up. Waylon lets him manipulate him, but keeps his leg crossed between them, protecting his dick. But then Eddie runs his hand along the underside of his thigh to the back of his knee, and pushes up.  
  
Eddie's cock, still hard and solid through his pants, slots up sideways against Waylon's asshole, the head rubbing up against Waylon's balls. They both groan in unison.  
  
Waylon has a realization, like lightning. Not a twitch when he was rubbing his body against his ‘wife’, but hard as steel after he found Waylon’s dick. Eddie Gluskin's _gay_.  
  
He doesn't really have time to consider the implications of that fact, as Eddie pushes him down hard, folding his leg up between them. Waylon tucks his ankle over Eddie's shoulder and spreads his legs. He had been with men, in all kinds of ways, but never this base, this violent, this hard. He's half terrified at the idea that Eddie will try to fuck him dry. The other half is burning up for it.  
  
Eddie ruts against him, grunting and panting. In the dark, Waylon can see him clearly, the pinch of his eyebrows, the sneer of his upper lip, the pink flush of blood in his cheeks and the muscles of his neck straining above the white clean hospital shirt. The arousal, the disgust, the self loathing, hidden in the dark.   
  
No, Waylon decides, that's not what this is. What this needs to be.  
  
He pushes his hands down between them and puts them on Eddie's stomach, fingers trembling. He's muscular, solid under the thin fabric, his abdominal muscles flexing under Waylon's hands as he grinds his cock into the warm space between Waylon's thighs. His eyes flutter open and he looks sharply at Waylon, the lens on the back of his eyes reflecting bright in the dark, a match to Waylon’s. Waylon can only imagine what he sees when he looks at him, small and too thin, his face wet and red from crying, face open and uncertain. Eddie's expression is still angry, but then, it shifts into desperation.  
  
Waylon rubs at the muscles through his shirt, up and down, working his way toward the hem of Eddie's pants. He carefully pushes his fingertips against it, hitching it down. Eddie doesn't protest, until his cock pops free of his clothes, and his hips stutter to a halt, breath heaving.   
  
It's a beautiful cock, thick and rippled with veins, uncut with his meaty foreskin stretched tight around the head. The slit of his urethra is drooling steadily, dripping onto Waylon's pants as he studies it. He pushes the hem of Eddie's pants under the dark skin of his testicles, running his fingers over the smattering of wiry hairs on his upper thighs, before carefully pulling back and seeking Eddie's face again.  
  
"You're a man," Eddie growls at him, face dark and twisted. "You're a man. It's a _sin_. It's _sick_."  
  
Waylon knows what homophobia looks like, where it comes from. "It's not," he gasps. "Someone told you that. It's not true."  
  
"No," he snarls, voice rising. He starts shaking. "No, it... No one could _want_ this. I'm not like _them_. I'm not going to do this, like they... like they did to me. I'm not like them."   
  
Them. His father and uncle. "It's not the same," Waylon says. His face is still tacky from tears but his voice is growing stronger in his chest. "That was rape. That's not what this is."  
  
"Isn't it?!" the man says, head snapping up to meet Waylon's gaze.   
  
"I want it," Waylon whispers. "I want you."  
  
"Why?!" There's so much misery in the word. Years and years of it.  
  
"I can show you. If you want me to," Waylon says. Then he pushes up on his elbows and kisses him.  
  
It's one sided at first, Waylon awkwardly pressing against the man's stiff mouth, but then Eddie makes a sound deep in his body, and he cracks open. Waylon licks hesitantly at his lips and is met with Eddie's tongue pushing hard against his, down into Waylon's mouth. Eddie makes a sound like a sob, and then drives his cock down against Waylon's belly.  
  
Waylon hooks an arm around Eddie's thick neck for leverage, still kissing him roughly, and then squeezes his free hand between them. He hikes his own shirt up to his armpits, then pushes down his own pants, freeing his own dick, and exposing the skin of his hip and stomach to Eddie's wet cock. At the first slide against skin, Eddie wails, muffled by Waylon's mouth on his. Then he changes the angle, settling his weight more firmly against Waylon, and their cocks slip together in the tight heat. Eddie sobs. Waylon feels the unmistakable drip of a tear hit his cheek.  
  
There's a question in the back of his mind, whether this is right. Eddie's unwell. Waylon's scared for his life. Nothing about this is healthy. But it's a faded concern, the muddling cloud of his arousal obscuring reason. He just _wants_.  
  
"I want you," Waylon repeats desperately, breaking the kiss to bite along his scruffy jaw. Eddie's pumping hard, his cock slipping along Waylon's easily, through the wet texture of his modest pubic hair, the fat head bumping into the divot of his bellybutton on each long thrust. One of his hands snakes up Waylon's chest and pinches at the slight puff of his areola.   
  
"I can't stop," Eddie gasps, his voice gone high and desperate.   
  
Waylon comes.    
  
The orgasm builds in the tip of his toes and spreads up through his body in a warm rush, and Waylon whites out. He might have cried out, if Eddie's mouth wasn't on his again, swallowing his voice down, muffling it with his tongue. He feels the hot spread of his own sperm on his belly, slicking the space between them even more, and he starts to regain himself just as Eddie realizes what's happened, and shakes apart.  
  
He observes the man's orgasm in slow motion, still high on his own chemical rush, turning his face against Eddie's cheek as the larger man smothers his shouts in the pillow. One large hand is wrapped around his rib cage, the other gripping his ankle where it still rests on his shoulder, and they spasm, fingertips digging, bruising. Waylon feels him paint his belly with it, and it feels twice as hot as his own, surging up against his skin in thick spurts. Eddie works his hips in smaller and slower thrusts as it passes. Waylon watches his face contort where it's pressed against the pillow, mouth wide, biting into it. Then the full body collapse as he goes limp from the pleasure of it, chest heaving. Waylon slips his hiked up leg to the side, easing it down to Eddie's hip, and then lies still, pinned.  
  
Waylon knows intimately the type of down that comes after a particularly embarrassing wank, when the regret and shame starts to cut through the haze. He's feeling it now, the question of whether he's just taken advantage of a sick man, and the question of whether he's just been sexually assaulted, boiling to the surface in his head. But more than that, he remembers way back, to the first time he masturbated to a picture of a boy, and the sick fear he'd felt for weeks over what that meant.   
  
Eddie was turned on by Waylon's body, precisely at the moment he discovered his genitalia. Eddie was attracted to him. But not when he saw him as a woman. Eddie was gay, probably, or at least, something not _straight_. Eddie thinks it's something disgusting, something to be ashamed of.  
  
Waylon frees his arms with a quick squirm and wraps them tightly around Eddie's large torso in the same movement. He presses his cheek against his. He holds him, and breathes.  
  
After a few long minutes, he feels the large body convulse. He realizes the man is crying, silently, mouth open in a grimace where he's still pressing his face into the pillows.  
  
Eventually he stops, and his breathing evens out. Waylon's not sure what the morning will be like (ugly, probably) and he's afraid to find out, but he's exhausted, unable to push it off any further. He glances over Eddie's shoulder at the opaque observation window, still black and inscrutable in the dark, and wonders if they saw. He falls asleep thinking about it.  
  
He thinks, almost idly, that if Eddie would only stop hurting him. That maybe… maybe...


	23. Chapter 23

Waylon wakes up in the early morning (he guesses) to the shifting of the blankets. He peels open his sticky eyelids in time to see Eddie's bulk resettle on the other bed, back to him. It doesn't concern him, he's still half asleep and uninterested in being awake, so he just hikes down his shirt over the dried mess on his stomach and goes back to sleep.  
  
When the lights come on and he wakes up properly, he feels two things. One is a deep and absorbing well of regret. The other is the distinct sense that something is very, very wrong.   
  
He rolls over, picking the sleep dust from his eye, and sees Eddie. He's sitting on the bed facing away from him, the blankets crumpled around him, slumped forward with his head in his hands. He doesn't react when Waylon sits up.  
  
Not a good sign, he thinks.   
  
He gets up, watching Eddie carefully, and moves to the sink to brush his teeth and surreptitiously wipe up the dried come on his stomach. He's considering whether it'd be alright for him to pee when the window clears, and the slot clanks. He jumps, and glimpses Eddie's body twitch. A nurse is waiting at the window to deliver their pills. Eddie doesn't move from his position on the bed.  
  
Waylon stares at her, unsettled. He'd have to pass Eddie to reach the slot, and he's not sure what's going on in the man's head right now. Finally, he shakes his head.  
  
The nurse steps to the intercom. "I'll need both of you to take your medication, please."  
  
Waylon stays put, looking pointedly at Eddie, and then at her, and shakes his head again. He raises his eyebrows. She raises hers.  
  
"I'll have to call the guards over if you refuse to-"  
  
"Oh good God," Eddie barks suddenly, pushing himself off the bed. He strides to the slot and downs his pill cup dry. In the faint reflection in the window Waylon can make out dark circles under his eyes, nothing to do with his bruised face. Then the man turns and looks squarely at Waylon.  
  
"Darling," he says with a heavy sigh. "Please take your pills before they come in and force feed them to you."  
  
Waylon's shoulders slump in relief as the man moves to sit at the small table, rubbing his face distractedly. Waylon quickly slips by and moves to the window. He checks the pills, three, like yesterday. The nurse is watching him carefully as he swallows all three, sipping from one of the fresh bottles of water she passed through. She nods and thanks them, then moves on.  
  
Waylon stares through the window at the dim hall outside. His eyes trail over to Eddie's reflection. The man has a bow to his back that Waylon hasn't seen before, leaning at an angle against the wall in a casual way that he's not used to. He's usually very upright, with very correct posture.  
  
Definitely, definitely not good.  
  
"Are you okay?" Waylon asks, his voice startling loud in the quiet room.   
  
"Perfectly," Eddie snarls. Waylon jumps. "Why wouldn't I be?"   
  
Well, the little voice says with smug satisfaction, hope that quick fuck was worth it. He frowns. He's starting to hate the voice, but, it does have a point.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For what I did."  
  
Eddie doesn't answer him. Waylon peeks over his shoulder, and sees the man staring contemplatively at the back wall, stroking his upper lip. Waylon eases over and sits on the bed, on Eddie's side, up against the headboard, tucking his feet up under him. Long minutes later, breakfast arrives. Then, eventually, Dr. Lin.   
  
Eddie still hasn't spoken to him.  
  
Dr. Lin smiles tightly at Waylon when she approaches, glancing quickly around the room, her eyes lingering on the rearranged beds. She looks better today, her makeup flawlessly applied, her hair straight and clean and glossy. She punches on the intercom. "Good morning, you two."  
  
Eddie doesn't respond. Waylon, not wanting to be the first to break the silence, just looks at her and nods.  
  
"Um," she continues, taken aback by Eddie's demeanor, turning to focus on Waylon instead. "We, uh, have some good news. The test results are really promising so far." She glances at Eddie quickly, and gives Waylon a thumbs up, hidden behind her tablet. He nods again. Murkoff must have been pleased with the results, and delayed their termination request. He had nearly forgotten about it.  
  
She continues, "We wanted to run some more verbal tests with you after breakfast, Mr. Gluskin, if that's alright. We can take both of you, like before, but-"  
  
"Just me," Eddie says.   
  
Waylon's eyes snap to him. Dr. Lin steps closer to the intercom, eyebrows furrowed. "Sorry, what was that?"  
  
Eddie turns, that large predator grace still present in his body, despite his slumped posture. He deliberately avoids Waylon's gaze, though Waylon can tell he's being studied in the man's peripheral. His eyes lock on to Dr. Lin, and then, he. _Smiles_. At her.  
  
Waylon feels a lurch within him. He swallows it down.  
  
"I can come alone this time," he says, continuing to smile, charmingly. "It was difficult for... my Darling, last time. I promise, I will still be on my best behavior."  
  
She nods slowly, her eyes darting between them. She's a psychiatrist, obviously picking up on the change, and Waylon feels vulnerable and naked under her scrutinizing gaze. "Okay, I think we can give it a try. We, um, we wanted to try it with minimal restraints this time. Like before. Do you think you can handle that?" She's trying to look to Waylon for an answer, without seeming too obvious, but it's difficult with Eddie staring directly at her.  
  
"I don't think it'll be a problem," Eddie answers. "Honestly. I feel excellent."  
  
Dr. Lin smiles back, at last, obviously still unsure. "Okay. I'll have to get approval from Dr. Clark, but I think it will be fine. Please enjoy your breakfast, and I'll be back in a few minutes to collect you." She gives Waylon a last concerned look before she heads off, her heels tapping along the hall floor.  
  
Waylon starts as Eddie suddenly appears beside him, but it's only for him to collect his breakfast tray and head back to the small table. He sits with determination, still staring at the back wall, and begins to eat. Waylon doesn't move to touch his own tray. He doesn't move from his position. The aggression radiating off the other man is palpable, and he's afraid the smallest spark will set it off.  
  
They sit in silence as Eddie picks at his oatmeal. He doesn't eat much. The guards arrive, accompanied by Dr. Lin and a male doctor Waylon remembers from the other day, and pass the set of linked cuffs through the slot, maneuvering around Waylon's untouched tray. Dr. Lin gives the tray a contemplative look. Waylon gives the cuffs a look. Then Eddie moves over to collect them himself, sitting at the foot of the bed to fasten them on his own ankles. His posture is rigid and his expression is tight and serious. Outside, the guards shift uncomfortably.   
  
After his ankles are secured, Eddie stands and turns to Waylon, holding the cuffs for his wrists out in front of him, but looking down and to the side. Waylon warily climbs to his knees on the mattress and pulls the cuffs from Eddie's hand, and moving to secure them. It reminds him of the previous day, when he was working so hard to keep the man calm, breeding that intimacy. He finishes, and looks up, and Eddie's blue eyes are cutting into him, pinning him in place. Waylon returns the look, his own eyes wide. He hopes he doesn't look afraid. But then he wonders if Eddie would like that.  
  
Then the man is turning away, holding his cuffs up and tugging on them like he'd done yesterday, demonstrating their security. The guards nod and pull their tasers, and they open the door. And without a backward glance, Eddie shuffles out.  
  
The door closes and locks, and the group proceeds down the hall. Waylon strains for sound, long after they've gone. It's just quiet.  
  
He takes a few minutes to process it. He decides, before he does, to take the chance to use the bathroom.  
  
He's still sitting on the toilet when the first serious emotions roll over them. He was expecting panic, over the fact that Eddie is outside without him, or fear for what Eddie's going to do to him when he gets back. He does not expect, however, the rage.  
  
Eddie _smiled_ at her, he thinks. That genuine smile. How dare he.  
  
Jealousy is next, as he's washing his hands, and soaping a cloth to wipe himself down again. That _bitch_ , he thinks. How DARE she.  
  
He collects his breakfast tray and settles into his own seat at the table, staring at Eddie's half eaten food, when the next wave overtakes him.   
  
Sadness. He'd had sex with Eddie. He'd wanted that, that twisted part of him that became more and more of his full self every day. But he supposed, he had _assumed_ that some intimacy would naturally follow that. He'd failed to take into account the man's myriad of medical issues, and of course his massive male ego, the ultimate obstacle to any successful relationship. He knew they would never have something resembling a real relationship, logically, but he'd been more than willing to keep up the wife charade if he needed to.   
  
Waylon blanks for awhile, the intensity of his emotions startling him and shutting him down. He re-covers Eddie's food where he'd abandoned it, in case he wants to eat it later, and then eats what he can stomach of his own. He looks at the deck of cards in the corner of the table. He wonders if they'll survive whatever reaction Eddie has once he's processed everything, or go the way of the last set.   
  
He starts to think again about whether Eddie will kill him. He'd been close to strangling him again the night before. Maybe he's finally regained enough awareness to be less impulsive about it this time.  
  
Waylon moves to the window and deposits his tray in the slot again. He pauses, looking at the room, at the unkempt blankets of the bed. He sighs. Then he moves to straighten up.  
  
He's cleaned and straightened the room and is well into his third game of solitaire when they return. Two guards move briskly into view first, followed by Eddie, walking stiffly. Three more guards group around him as they usher him to the door, popping it open and readmitting him. The man shuffles in, his eyes skimming over the straightened room, then firmly fixing on the back wall again. Once the door closes behind him, Dr. Lin appears. She looks frazzled.   
  
She makes firm eye contact with Waylon before she speaks. "Could you come to the door?"  
  
Eddie stiffens visibly, but he still won't look at Waylon. Waylon pushes him up slowly, breaking his silence. "Um... Do you want me to unlock him first?"  
  
"No," she says. "We'll release his wrists through the slot. We just need to do a quick medical checkup on you."  
  
"You didn't mention that before," Eddie growls lowly, turning to stare at her through the window.  
  
"It will be brief," she assures him, smiling. He doesn't smile back.   
  
Waylon goes to collect his slippers from under the bed, and moves to the door reluctantly. He keeps glancing at Eddie, who is still glaring darkly through the window. Then he turns his head to look at Waylon.  
  
The intensity of that gaze is something he's not sure he'll ever get used to. It's smoldering. He looks him up and down slowly. Waylon can't tell what he's thinking.  
  
"It will be very brief," Dr. Lin's voice crackles through the intercom. "Eddie, please move over here and put your wrists through?"  
  
It's a long moment before he makes a move. When he finally does, he still doesn't take his eyes off of Waylon. He pushes his large hands through the slot and a guard takes hold of the chains from the other side, putting it through the hook above the slot, making it impossible for Eddie to free himself.  
  
Then the door makes that familiar clanking sound and eases open. The guard holds it for him, his taser ready, as Waylon slowly pads out into the slightly less stifling air of the hallway. He looks back at Eddie the whole time, waiting to see if he'll move or react. The man just stares at him, his whole body tense. When the door clanks closed behind him again, locking, the guard works the straps at Eddie's wrists free. Eddie doesn't take his eyes off of Waylon.  
  
Dr. Lin approaches slowly. "Waylon, Dr. Clark required me to show you this." She holds up a small remote for his ankle monitor, identical to Dr. Clark's. He frowns at her. "I don't intend to use it unless there's a problem. But keep in mind it's the only reason we can bring you out here without cuffs at this point."  
  
"Yeah," he huffs, but getting electroshocked by the ankle monitor is the last thing on his mind, as he glances up at Eddie.  
  
"We genuinely do need to do a quick physical," she says, her heels clicking away across the floor. "Follow me."  
  
Waylon does, until the window recedes to a thin strip of light behind him, taking Eddie with it. He keeps glancing back. Eddie's eyes never leave his face.  
  
Most of the guards break off as they reach the main area, two accompanying him and Dr. Lin in the elevator as they descend to the medical wing. Dr. Lin is tellingly quiet, keeping her eyes forward. Waylon starts to wonder if he's walking into some kind of trap.   
  
"H-how did it go with Eddie," he asks quietly. "His behavior, I mean."  
  
She casts him a cynical look. "His conduct was excellent, like yesterday. His demeanor, obviously, is a concern." She glances quickly at the guard just past Waylon's shoulder. "Let's discuss that during your exam."  
  
On the lower floor, there is more bustle of activity than there is upstairs, with nurses and a few doctors milling back and forth through the hallways with various tablets and exam equipment.  
  
"Seems busier than usual," he remarks. She sighs heavily.  
  
"The patients are getting restless. There was a fight last night when they went down to pick up a new subject. The patient got his arm broken." She shakes her head, her glossy black hair waving behind her. She's so _pretty_. So feminine. He stares at the back of her head and tries very hard to squash the jealousy clawing up through him.   
  
She leads him to a small exam room, similar to the one he'd stolen supplies from. She gestures to the exam table and he takes a seat obediently as she murmurs to the guards, then clicks the door closed behind him. She crosses to the small doctor's stool, and drops herself onto it heavily, heaving a sigh. Then she stares at him.  
  
"The guards heard some noises last night," she says. "Did Eddie... sexually assault you?"  
  
Waylon pales. He'd expected some lead in, some maneuvering, before they got to this point. "No," he answers shakily, after a long pause.  
  
She tightens her lips and shakes her head, clearly disbelieving. "Are you injured? Other than your neck, that is."  
  
He'd forgotten about the strangulation marks from the day before, bright blue and black at this point. "They're from the night before. He didn't... I didn't get hurt last night. I swear." He pushes all of his earnestness into it.  
  
"But there WAS sexual contact?"   
  
He blanches. "No, it... He held me. He's uh... a cuddler."  
  
"So how would you explain his demeanor this morning," she asks him pointedly. "During the time I've been working with him, he's been unfailingly polite and upbeat, until the rage sets in. This sullen version of him came from somewhere."  
  
Waylon bites his lips and tries not to be jealous about her mentioning the time they've worked together. When he doesn't answer, she sighs and leans forward, putting her elbows on her knees. The collar of her blouse falls open just slightly, and he can see the lace of her bra over the swell of her breasts. It's an unconscious motion, unaware, and he sneers a little at the idea of her possibly doing it in front of Eddie.  
  
"Dr. Clark told me I should be honest with you. I think it's crazy, but, she's the boss," she says, sitting up. "Eddie's off the table for Murkoff's termination project, as long as he doesn't attack anyone else. I texted her about his behavior this morning and despite the change in his mood, she seems optimistic. She wants to move the two of you downstairs, free up the cell for more high risk patients as soon as possible."  
  
"Ambitious," Waylon mutters. "Foolhardy."  
  
"She seems to know what she's doing," Dr. Lin says, tone of voice indicating she doesn't exactly believe that.  
  
"Why didn't she come see me herself, if she's so concerned about our progress?"   
  
"She flies out for a meeting with Murkoff every week," Dr. Lin answers. "That's why she left me with this." She jangles the control at him, then slips it into her jacket pocket, under her white coat. "Now, I genuinely do have to do an exam on you. If you ARE injured, please tell me. You're a very important person, and we don't want you dying because you hid something from us."  
  
Waylon bites his lips. "He didn't hurt me."  
  
She gives him long look, then nods. "Okay. Please take off your clothes."  
  
He bristles, face going red.  
  
"You don't want me to get the guards in here to sedate and strip you," she says, pulling some examination tools from the drawers.  
  
He complies, slowly, as she snaps on her gloves. He tries to avoid looking at her as her gaze travels over his lean body, the bruising on his hips and ribs from Eddie's harsh grip, the pinched redness of a nipple. The skin around his genitalia is slightly purpled as well from Eddie's rough hand. He keeps his slippers on, and she doesn't question him. In the small room, the space is almost intimate, and her small size and the power dynamic draws his mind uncomfortably back to Lisa. He doesn't want to compare her to Lisa. He doesn't want to think about Lisa at all right now, after what he'd done with Eddie.  
  
The examination is clinical, but thorough. She checks his eyes and ears and mouth, his reflexes, and examines every inch of him, noting each of the new bruises on her tablet. She says he needs to check his prostate, and he argues with her, but she just gives him a flat look. "We can mince words about why I _actually_ need to do this, or you can just let me check your _prostate_." He nearly growls out loud at her, and bends over the table while she procures a tube of that familiar lubricant and pushes her finger uncomfortably inside him, searching for damage. If she knows about the lube he'd been caught with upstairs, she doesn't say, and he supposes he can be grateful for that small thing.  
  
"I don't think he would do that," Waylon says carefully as he pulls his underwear back on, after. She looks at him in surprise, dropping her gloves in the medical waste bin.  
  
"I thought we were being coy," she says.  
  
"I just... I've spent two nights now locked in a room with him. Murder, sure. But... _rape_?" The word rolls out of his mouth with distaste. “He seems disgusted by the idea.”  
  
She checks her tablet thoughtfully, and replies vaguely, "There are a lot of unknowns in this situation."  
  
"You know more about his history than I do. You have files," he answers. Then, almost accusingly, "And you _like_ him."  
  
She doesn't deny it. She just settles herself back on the stool as he pulls his shirt over his head, tablet in her lap. "Dr. Clark never briefed you? On his history."  
  
"I know some... vague things, from Mount Massive."  
  
"You know he was abused as a child. That he killed his abusers."  
  
Waylon nods slowly, straightening his shirt.   
  
"How about his murders, after? The women."  
  
He pauses. In fact, he doesn't know all that much about the women he murdered. If the documents he'd tried to collect had mentioned them in detail, he must have glossed over it. "I... assumed it was a scenario like what he was doing in Mount Massive. Looking for a bride, but really, he just wanted more victims. No girl is good enough for him."  
  
She nods. "Serial killers, for the most part, are acting out a scenario based on a trauma in their past. Other doctors assumed that he was, essentially, killing his mother, who passed away when he was a toddler. She failed to stop his abuse, so he was punishing her for it, over and over. The murders weren't sexual."  
  
Waylon's eyebrows quirk up. She gives him a knowing look.  
  
"I know what you're thinking. But it's distinctly different from his behavior in Mount Massive. The sexual language and innuendo we saw on your tapes was new. As was the, ah, genital mutilation, specifically. The rest was the same profile: they're unworthy, so he discards them."  
  
"He was turning men into women so he could murder them," Waylon says. "That's what the mutilation was."  
  
"And yet," she points at him. "He hasn't done this with you."  
  
"Not for lack of trying," he scoffs.  
  
"His connection to you is different somehow. In the scenario he created for you, you're not just some girl, you're his wife. He's obviously become more aware of your anatomy, and yet, no talk of 'fixing' it. And the clear sexual component-"  
  
"There is no 'sexual component'," he argues.  
  
"He had semen on his _shirt_ , Waylon!" she cries, throwing her hands up in the air. "Come on!"  
  
Waylon clamps his mouth shut, face hot and red. Eddie had been so closed off that morning, it hadn't even occurred to him to check for such a thing. Not that he could have done much about it.  
  
"I think you see where I'm going with this." Her eyes seek his, urging him to make the connections.  
  
Reluctantly, he answers, something he already guessed, but which is making more and more sense. "He's attracted to men."  
  
She nods. "The language he used in Mount Massive arose when his victims were men. The whole 'wife' thing, we're still trying to make sense of how that fits. Or what changed after whatever happened last night. He's not talking much about it, obviously."  
  
Waylon heaves a sigh. He's glad, a bit, that Dr. Clark never briefed him properly on what he was dealing with. It would have overcomplicated things. It still could. He looks at the young woman seated across from him sourly. "So you knew all this. And you still had a crush on him?"  
  
Dr. Lin blushes, raking her fingers through her hair nervously. "I... My last relationship ended badly, and you know, he was so nice. So gentlemanly. Men don't act like that anymore." She sighs sadly. "I'd read his files but I guess it didn't really sink in, until he started hurting the doctors. But never me. I was... flattered, in a twisted way." She stands slowly, smoothing her skirt, and Waylon takes her in fresh, her delicate ankles above her slightly too high heels; her thin wrists emerging from the slightly too long sleeves of her coat, rolled carefully back; her carefully combed hair and expert makeup. A small woman, armored, in the only way she'd learned how. "Plenty of people fall in love with serial killers and murderers. There are theories that it has to do with with the animal tendency to choose the strongest mate. Our basest instincts leading us down a complex path of human psychology that they're not equipped to deal with. You can understand something about that, right?"   
  
He can’t reply to that.  
  
She smiles at him tightly, reaching for a drawer, and turning with two more tubes of medical lubricant in her hand, holding them out to him. He flushes so hard he feels like he's going to faint.  
  
"Don't let him hurt you," she says, her eyes tired, her voice flat. "You're a valuable asset to the Murkoff Corporation."  
  
Outside the room, there's a blood-curdling scream.  
  
"Shit!" Waylon shouts, jumping half across the table, Dr. Lin skittering backward a few steps, before pushing the tubes into his hand and moving toward the door. There's footsteps and commotion outside now, and as she pops the door open, Waylon sees guards rush by and down the hall, along with a scattering of doctors and nurses. Dr. Lin moves out and down the hall with them, as if she's forgotten him completely. Waylon moves to the door as well, carefully leaning out.  
  
Down the hall, several guards are working to subdue a large patient. Waylon recognizes the man from downstairs, but his scarred and deformed skin has gone ashen, his shirtless body bruised and swollen. The man is screaming and bellowing wordlessly, shaking them off easily. The doctors stand behind the guards, trying to move around and talk to the man, urging the guards not to tase him, as the guards argue back. As Waylon watches, the variant rips part of a metal doorframe free of the wall and brandishes it clumsily.  
  
"A real improvement, huh?" a voice murmurs behind him, and he whirls to find Miles Upshur at his elbow. Standing side by side, he's about a half foot taller than Waylon, unsurprisingly. He's shaved and trimmed his wild hair, dressed in a proper set of patient clothes matching Waylon's. His clean face is still gray and pale, eyes sunken. The man smiles cynically at him, then nods at the scene down the hall. "Just like good ol' Mount Massive Asylum."  
  
"You scared the hell out of me," Waylon growls, eyes darting around. All of the staff are occupied, leaving the pair of them relatively alone at the end of the hall.  
  
"Better me than somethin' that wants to kill you." Miles' eyes follow his, then he leans in. "How's the plan coming?"  
  
"Bad," Waylon answers blandly. The man has a certain energy to him that he's not equipped to handle at the moment.   
  
Miles grimaces. "Can't say I'm surprised."  
  
Waylon shakes his head, watching the doctors trying to calm the huge man. The patient's eyes are wide and bright and wet. "I don't... I don't know what to do. We've got nothing. I tried to take some things we could use as weapons, but, I'm locked upstairs with a man who is probably going to kill me tonight. I have a shock collar around my ankle that tracks where I go. I don't know the schedules, I don't have contact with the patients downstairs, I don't have anything, I... I..." His breathing picks up, almost uncontrollable.  
  
Miles pats his shoulder. "Calm down. Look, they're sending me downstairs, something about needing the space. Is there someone I can talk to? I can get a message down for you."  
  
Waylon presses his back to the wall to steady his shaking, fist gripping tight around the small tubes. He slips them into his pocket and rubs his sweaty palm against his thigh. "There's a guy named Dennis, he can-"  
  
The patient screams again, and smashes a doctor in the face with the broken door frame. All hell breaks loose.  
  
Several of the guards launch themselves at once, tackling the patient hard just as he lifts his arm to deliver another blow. He goes down with a shriek, and Waylon sees the arm holding the strip of aluminum frame fly up high as he pitches onto his back under the black-clothed men. Then he drops it, and his open hand slaps down on the back of a guard, lifting and flinging him like a doll, smashing him into the far wall. Waylon and Miles flatten themselves to the wall as a gun comes out, almost in slow motion, on the far side of the flailing patient. The guard holding it lifts it, points it... then his hand snaps at the wrist, in plain open air. He screams.  
  
"Jesus," Waylon gasps, and then he sees it, the guard that had been thrown, being pulled up against the wall by nothing, like a poltergeist movie. The doctors scatter, abandoning the writhing body of the man who had taken a hit to the face, and the guards on top of the patient struggle wildly to hold him down. Waylon sees Dr. Lin slip behind a counter, frantically juggling some small glass vials as a nurse is desperately shredding the wrapping of a syringe.   
  
Over the backs of the guards pinning to the patient to the floor, Waylon sees it. It's like a movie where someone has taken a key to the film, a scribble of dark in thin air. Like a swarm. The unmistakeable ashy cloud of nanomachines that constitutes the Walrider.  
  
Waylon can't breathe. He can't take his eyes away from it. Miles is tugging at his arm, pushing at him, but Waylon can't see anything but that dark mass. Then Miles pushes him into the small exam room and slams the door closed. Waylon falls on his ass, pushing his way across the floor until he's wedged under the table. Miles hunches by the door for a moment, then crawls toward him.  
  
"You were right," Waylon gasps. "It's here. It's fucking here."  
  
"Relax," Miles says, his voice strained. "Things aren't gonna pop off like last time, not yet. It just doesn't like the guards very much."  
  
Waylon clamps his arms around his knees and struggles with his breathing, trying to process those words, as Miles settles beside him, his hand clutching his side. Then Waylon sees the swarming, coalescing in the room in front of them. He jerks back instinctively, his shoulder slamming into the cabinet beside him hard enough to bruise.   
  
"You're not in danger," Miles says slowly, teeth gritted as if in pain. That's when Waylon picks it up. The swarm is coming from _Miles_.  
  
"God, you're-" Waylon pauses, shaking. "What are you?"  
  
"Nnhf-" Miles grunts, leaning hard against the wall as the swarming cloud of the Walrider's nanomachines persists around the hand he's clenching tight to his abdomen. "Well, that Wernicke guy called me a host. I like to think I'm more like..." He pauses, and grins. "The mommy."  
  
Waylon stares. The cloud of nanites is slowly subsiding, becoming less and less corporeal.   
  
"See, they knocked him out," Miles groans. "Once the variant's out of danger, they calm down. God, it fucking hurts when they crawl in and out this fast though."  
  
"The Walrider," Waylon says shakily. "Is living in your body?"  
  
"Well, to be frank," he snorts, like he's just told a funny joke that Waylon missed. "I think they killed me. And now it's keeping me running. I think I'm kinda like the new Engine or something."  
  
Waylon's mouth falls open in horror. Miles rubs at his stomach and stretches, flexing his spine and grimacing. The dark cloud has entirely dissipated. All Waylon hears in the halls are firm instructions and the thud of feet, the sounds of a situation that has just gotten back under control.  
  
"I don't control it," Miles says quickly. "So don't think about using it in your plan. The guy controlling it before, Billy I think, he could make it fly around and look like a person, but I can't do anything like that. I guess because I'm not in a coma or whatever. They just react to shit."  
  
"That's what was..." Waylon pauses, remembering the guard he had basically decapitated. "I saw it before, a few nights ago, I... It was a reaction to the guards, then, too."  
  
Miles laughs and rubs his face. "Well, that one wasn't me. I've been pretty dormant until now, since we got out of Mount Massive. Was kinda hoping it was gone after all, but…“ He trails off, shrugging.  
  
"Did you say they killed you?" Waylon hisses. "How the hell would that work?"  
  
"They remade me from the inside out," Miles murmurs. "Making my body into a weapon, into a home that suits them. I distinctly remember being shot to death." He opens his eyes and stares at Waylon. "You've noticed differences too, right? Things you shouldn't have survived, things you're able to do... I think they did it to all of us. Without these little mechanical bugs crawling through us, we're all dead men."  
  
Waylon chills. He rubs a hand down his leg, at the scarring there. The infection that should have killed him. The place where he'd had the most clouding on his scans. He thinks about Eddie, his guts on the floor of that dirty gym.  
  
Miles continues. "Look, I don't know about all the bullshit with the lucid dreaming or whatever. We're all drugged up and 'sane', so we can't use it the way Billy Hope did. But like, these are just little machines, right? There's gotta be a way to-"  
  
The door pops open. Miles slams his mouth shut and pulls his feet tighter up under him.   
  
Waylon leans out from under the exam table shakily, and relief washes over Dr. Lin when she sees him. Her hair is disheveled and she's holding her shoes in her hand, one of the heels snapped off at the base. No wonder he didn't hear her coming. "Good," she huffs. "Good. Have you seen-"  
  
Miles follows his example and peeks out as well, plastering on a wide grin. "Hey, Dr. Lin!"   
  
Her whole body droops. "Ah thank god." She leans out the door, calling to someone down the hall. "I've got them both. That's everyone."  
  
Miles leans close to Waylon and whispers, "Don't tell them anything. All they know is that scanning me fucks up their machines. Who knows what kinds of shit they'd do to me if they knew the rest of it.” Then he scrambles out and forces himself to stand straight, hiding the remnants of pain he obviously still feels. Waylon slowly crawls out behind him. Dr. Lin gives them both strange looks, eyes darting between them.  
  
"Frank," she says, and Waylon had definitely forgotten that part. "Head back to your room. Dr. Nunez will finish your checkup and get you set up for your transfer."  
  
Miles smiles wide and salutes her. "Yes ma'am!" Then he glances back at Waylon, and scoots from the room. Dr. Lin looks at him, and Waylon feels himself being carefully observed.   
  
"You know him?" she asks suspiciously.   
  
"Uh. It's um, Frank. Manera. From the. From Mount Massive." He's an awful liar, he's come to realize. Just truly bad.   
  
"He doesn't make you nervous?" she presses.  
  
The best lies are spun from truths, he recalls. "I met him briefly, last time I was in the medical wing. I didn't even recognize him at first, he acted so different. It's hard to be afraid of him. He's... nice."  
  
She looks at him skeptically, but then shakes her head, as if she has bigger problems to deal with. "Okay. We need to get you back upstairs now. You have the stuff I gave you?" He nods, red-faced. "Good. Once we have a guard free to escort you-"  
  
Just then, a guard rounds the corner from the elevators at a jog. He spots Dr. Lin and calls out, "Ma'am, we have a situation upstairs."  
  
"God, what now," she huffs, flailing the hand with her ruined shoes.  
  
"Gluskin's losing it," the guard says, and Waylon feels a surge of adrenaline. "We need to get Park back up there, now."  
  
She turns to look at him, and he's already nodding.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolute filth ✿

The three of them pile back onto the elevator, Dr. Lin still barefoot in her pantyhose. She's pressing her fingers to her temple. "I shouldn't have separated you two. I should have gotten you back half an hour ago. Whatever's happening, just try to keep in mind what I told you. He picked you for a reason."  
  
When the doors open, Waylon can already hear him. The sound penetrates the walls. Waylon walks quickly ahead of them, passing the guards, who lurch back slightly from him when they realize a patient is marching by. Two guards are standing in front of Eddie's cell, a good distance from the window. As Waylon draws close enough to see the light through the sliver of window, he hears it.  
  
"WHERE IS HE?!"  
  
His heart lurches. He almost trips and falls flat on his face. HE. Not she. The man knows. He remembers. What does that mean?  
  
He moves into view of the window. Eddie is pressed up against the glass, fists pushing against it, his whole body taut and trembling, his face and neck red. Veins in his neck stand out thick from screaming, his teeth bright and sharp where he's baring them. When Waylon appears, those blue eyes cut to him, and where Waylon was hoping for relief, instead there's ferocity.  
  
"Where have you BEEN?!" Eddie snarls.  
  
"There was an incident," Dr. Lin says quickly, shuffling up behind Waylon. "It was unavoidable, but I apologize-"  
  
"Open the door," Eddie growls, giving the glass a sharp bang with his fists.  
  
"Eddie," Waylon barks, and Eddie snaps his eyes back to him, wide and furious. "They can't open the door when you're like this. You know that."  
  
Eddie snarls at him, literally _snarls_ , banging the glass again.  
  
"Stand at the back of the room, and they'll let me in," Waylon says shakily. "Please."  
  
A guard looks between him and Dr. Lin. "We have to cuff him before we-"  
  
She cuts him off. "Do as he says. Eddie, if you listen to Waylon, we'll do it."  
  
The man trembles, his broad body shaking with fury. For a long moment, Waylon's certain the man will lose it. But then he takes a small step back, still trembling from the intensity, like it takes everything in him to do it. Then he takes another. And another, until he's at the back of the cell, his chest heaving.  
  
Waylon's shivering. This is it, he thinks. He steps up to the door.  
  
A guard unlocks the thick door and opens it just wide enough for him to slip inside. It's barely closed behind him when Eddie's crossed the room in two strides and pushes him back up against the door, his fists slamming so hard into it, Waylon's sure they leave dents. Waylon flattens himself to the door and squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head to the side, and waits for the pain.  
  
The Groom hovers over him, breathing heavily, his body so hot that Waylon can feel it through his clothes. He's boxing him in against the door, his elbows planted at either side of his blond head, his knees grinding against the metal on either side of him, the expanse of his body pressed close, but not quite touching. Trapping him. His mouth presses against Waylon's forehead, baring his teeth against the skin.  
  
"How _could_ you?" the Groom hisses. "How could you _leave me_ again?"  
  
Waylon gasps for air in the tight space. "I didn't have a choice. But they brought me back. I'm here."  
  
The Groom shakes his head, rubbing his teeth against Waylon's forehead, pinching at the thin skin over his skull. "How dare they... They don't have the _right_..."  
  
"They don't," Waylon agrees. "No, they don't."  
  
Eddie stands over him for a long moment, trembling. Waylon slowly peels open his eyes, trying to take in the state of him. The first thing he's able to see is the state of the room, peeking under the man's bicep.  
  
It's immaculate. Exactly as Waylon had left it. Waylon's brain spins, trying to catch up. He had expected destruction, broken beds, shredded playing cards. But nothing is touched. The only wreck in the room is Eddie.  
  
Over him, the man is still red and sweating, but Waylon can hear it now, in his hitching breathes. Crying.  
  
"I'm sorry," Waylon says. "God, I'm so sorry."  
  
"Are you a spy for _them_?" Eddie mumbles. "Is that why you let me do those things to you?"  
  
"No, I wanted it. I wanted you to." Waylon's voice rises, willing him to believe him.  
  
"Don't LIE to me-" Eddie barks, as Waylon's already moving, throwing his arms around the man's broad torso and pressing his face into his chest. Eddie startles, and freezes.  
  
The only sound in the room for a long while is the sound of Eddie's ragged breathing. Waylon clutches to him, feeling his ribcage expand with each breath, the rattle of it down through his lungs. Eddie pushes him closer to the door and leans against him, his body slackening in increments. Everything else is gone; the outside hallway, the people in it, the hospital, the patients. All that exists is this small, hot space between his body and Eddie's.  
  
"You're _mine_ ," Eddie growls. "You _know_ that you're _**mine**_."  
  
A spark shoots through Waylon's body at the words, his cock twitching and his balls tightening. "Yeah," he answers. "Yeah."  
  
Eddie is pressed so tightly against him that he feels Waylon's cock stiffen against his thigh, and he grunts. Waylon feels the man's answering erection grow against his hip.  
  
"Such a fucking _whore_ ," Eddie growls, and Waylon groans out loud, unable to stifle himself.  
  
Suddenly they're moving, Eddie dragging Waylon by the collar of his shirt. Waylon stumbles but manages to push off the table to keep upright, nearly bumping off Eddie's still untouched breakfast. Then he's being pushed up against the back wall of the cell, skidding along it, and nearly falling over the toilet as Eddie pushes him into it. Waylon grapples with the piping in the back, nearly losing his slipper in the bowl as he flails, and twisting his body in time to see Eddie looming over him, pulling the curtain closed behind him, his heavy erection tenting the front of his pants. His face is still red, a combination of fury and arousal, and keen humiliation.  
  
"If you want it so badly, I'll give it to you," Eddie says, one hand popping the button on his pants and releasing his straining cock, the other going to Waylon's waist, the large hand wrapping half around him, thumb pinching tightly into his belly, and dragging him toward him.  
  
"Christ," Waylon groans. His balls feel like they're going to burst. His head is a haze of hormones, all reason evacuated. "Yes. Yes, please-"  
  
He wriggles and Eddie's fingers slip off of him, catching and tangling in his shirt and pulling it away from his body. Waylon takes advantage and pulls his arm out, Eddie doing the rest by yanking it toward him as Waylon slips out. He tries to start on his pants, but Eddie's hands are on him again, pulling him closer. Waylon straddles the toilet bowl and grabs onto the piping in the back to steady himself as Eddie steps in close and grinds his cock against his ass. Then he pushes down Waylon's pants and underwear to his mid thigh, exposing his ass and his hole to the air. Waylon shudders, then starts grappling with his pants pocket in a panic as Eddie rubs his wet cock against Waylon's hole and _pushes_.  
  
Waylon yelps and jerks away as his pants drop to his ankles and the tubes come free from his pocket, one of them clattering free across the floor. Eddie must see it, because he makes a hissing sound and freezes, fingers tightening on Waylon's hips. Waylon has a moment of clarity in his lustful haze, realizing his mistake. He knows Eddie is comparing this to his abuse, and the last thing he wants is to solidify that comparison. His thoughts skip around frantically, his erection waning as he tries to imagine ways to distinguish them in Eddie's mind, besides giving his enthusiastic consent.  
  
"Slut," Eddie hisses, tugging Waylon close again, and he can clearly feel that the man's erection has not diminished. He frantically uncaps the tube and empties nearly half of it into his palm, pushing his forehead against the tiled wall above the plumbing to hold himself steady as Eddie positions his cock at his anus again. Waylon, in a panic, blanks.  
  
"Stop!" Waylon yells, half authoritative, half desperate.  
  
Eddie does.  
  
Waylon can feel the man's hands gripping the flesh of his hips and thighs, poised to yank the smaller man back on the thick erection that's wedged up against his asshole. Both of their bodies are shaking.  
  
"Why should I stop?" Eddie hisses through his clenched teeth, quiet and menacing.  
  
"Because I asked you to," Waylon whimpers, pushing his face against the bleached tiles, and rocking his body forward, against Eddie's hold on him. "Because you're not like _them_."  
  
Eddie let's him go, making a sound like a sob.  
  
His hands are still touching him, gripping, like he can't quite control them. But it's enough yield for Waylon to put some space between his ass and Eddie's impatient dick. Enough to contort his arm up behind him and push his palm down the crack of his own ass.  
  
There's too much lube, Waylon feels it drip down his perineum and over his balls, but he'd rather have too much than too little. He puddles as much as he can on his fingers and then pushes two of them into his hole.  
  
He hears Eddie's breath catch. A strangled, choking sound. He feels the man's cock head bump wetly against his ass cheek as the man thrusts uncontrollably into the air. Waylon's own erection recovers marvelously at the idea of the Groom staring at Waylon's asshole as he fingers himself. The thought also occurs that Eddie might not last long enough to actually fuck him at this rate, so he speeds up, pulling his fingers all the way out and then pushing three fingers in. It's a stretch, dully painful in the way that Waylon likes. Eddie emits a strangled wail.  
  
"You're really so hungry for it, Darling," Eddie says, his voice creaky and deep. "Opening yourself up for me."  
  
Waylon grips the plumbing behind the toilet to lever himself up, panting. "M-making a... space for you..."  
  
Eddie moans with abandon, open mouthed and loud, his fingers leaving Waylon's hips and running firm trails up Waylon's back, down the sides of his ribcage, then cupping up under his belly, pushing up to his hard nipples and flat chest. He feels the side of the Groom's cock press up against the side of his hand where it's working him open, rutting through the excess lube along the cleft of his ass, as Eddie cradles him, pinching his chest, his thumbs running through the soft faint hair in his armpits. He feels Eddie's hot breath between his shoulder blades.  
  
Waylon feels the tipping point when his arousal eats up the lingering pain of the penetration, and pulls his fingers free. Blindly, he grasps Eddie's cock in his slippery fist, working the lube up over the head and down the shaft.  
  
"Now," Waylon says, voice rough and low. "Put it in."  
  
Eddie's breathing stops as he pulls a hand away from fondling Waylon's chest and puts it on his own cock. Waylon plants his slippery hand on the piping beside his dry one, arching his back and parting his thighs, presenting his asshole.  
  
"Like a bitch in heat," Eddie says, weakly, like he's trying to put venom into it, but he can't manage. Waylon feels his hole twitch at the slur nonetheless.  
  
The head settles wetly at his hole and pushes forward without hesitation, a long, slick, hot slide as the Groom penetrates him for the first time. Waylon practically howls, his face against the tile. His prostate and balls throb, desperate to ejaculate.  
  
Waylon can still remember the last time he had sex with a man. The man had been handsome, body cleanshaven, his penis fat-headed and curved. He'd finished early, and Lisa had stepped in to finish Waylon, slipping the long hard length of their favorite dildo into him as the man tied off his condom. Waylon had never had sex with a man without a condom. After that encounter, he'd only experienced penetration with rubber cocks or his own hands.  
  
None of it could compare to the hot, throbbing fullness of a naked cock rubbing at the walls of his hole, the texture of skin slipping on skin. He can feel the wet surge of precome inside of him as Eddie bottoms out, feeling the rough texture of Eddie's pubic hair against the sensitive rim of his anus, Eddie's balls, pulled up tight, slotting up against his perineum as he pushes himself tight against him. Eddie's thick arms wrap around him, his clothed thighs pushing against Waylon's naked ones as he repositions himself. Waylon feels the man's wet face press against his shoulder blades. The perfect girth of his cock is putting pressure on his prostate, and Waylon feels the first deep twinges of his oncoming orgasm, just from having the man still and fully seated in his ass.  
  
It feels transcendent. It's like coming home. Waylon's sure he'll be able to come from this, untouched, if the man is able to last more than a few pumps. If he comes too fast, Waylon's sure he'll be able to masturbate himself to completion before the man's dick slips from his ass.  
  
Then suddenly the man's hand slips down the curve of his belly and tentatively touches his cock. Waylon nearly comes right then, clenching around the fullness in his hole, and Eddie grunts. Waylon pants as Eddie's hand carefully cups Waylon's hard penis, exploratory, delicately pushing his fingers along the seam of the foreskin and head. Waylon didn't usually get very wet, but he feels like his cock is positively drooling.  
  
"Does it really feel good?" Eddie asks quietly.  
  
Waylon's flooded with emotion. Sadness, for this man, and a deep affection. Protectiveness. Fury, at the ones who hurt him. Jealousy. Possessiveness.  
  
"It's the best thing I've ever felt," Waylon says, honestly. God, he'd loved Lisa. But god, how his body had always preferred men. "It's amazing. You're amazing." The Groom sobs, uncontrollably, almost like a laugh.  
  
Waylon pushes his head up slowly to look over his shoulder, down the smooth, pale expanse of his own back to the point where they're joined, Eddie's slightly soft lower belly pressed against his buttocks and lower back, the clenching solid muscle underneath. Eddie's shirt, sweaty and dragging up as Eddie presses against him. And then the man's face, still pink and flushed, wet from sweat and tears. The circles under his eyes are still dark. The moisture on his face has soaked through the adhesive in the splint on his nose, which is threatening to peel away completely. Then the man opens his blue eyes, puffy and red-rimmed, and looks at him.  
  
It's the first time Waylon's sure the man really sees _him_.  
  
"You said we'd be beautiful," Waylon says, overcome. "You were right."  
  
Eddie looks ruined. Then he begins to move.  
  
There's a few awkward and stuttering thrusts before Eddie finds his rhythm, a slow, long drag back, a firm thrust to replant himself. His hand is still clutching Waylon's cock, rubbing at the veins and the foreskin as they pulse under his fingers, but not seeming to know what else to do with it. The cock in his ass is enough for Waylon, so he's not fussed about it. That, and knowing that the man who wanted to cut his dick off is now clutching and fondling it like a precious thing, is more than enough. Waylon's sure he could come like this, but he's greedy. He wants more.  
  
He puts his hands up on the tile and pushes himself back into the cup of the Groom's hips, meeting one of his thrusts hard. Eddie's breath stutters. Waylon pushes himself up against the wall, taking a careful step forward. Eddie follows him, until Waylon's got his forearms laid against the wall, body angled half upright against it, allowing the man to keep his grip on Waylon's chest and cock but also lean away, angling himself into a better position. Eddie figures it out, and then pulls his hand from Waylon's nipple to plant it against the wall besides Waylon's, and thrusts _hard_. Then again, faster.  
  
Waylon lays himself against the wall, his mouth finding Eddie's hand and opening against the thick veins and delicate bones of it, kissing and biting. The man stutters and then pounds harder. Waylon rides him, feeling the cells of his genitalia and asshole swell plump with blood, his asshole puffy, soft and welcoming for the Groom's seed. His penis strains in Eddie's hand, and the man grips it rhythmically as he fucks into him, like he's enjoying the evidence of the pleasure he's giving him. Waylon lets his whole body bounce when the man thrusts, driving him forward, until the nubs of his nipples are pressed against the cold tile. He tilts his chin against the wall, tipping his face back up, and that's when the Groom kisses him again, and his hand suddenly seems to figure out how to work his cock, giving him two firm, fast strokes, and Waylon comes.  
  
He goes blind and deaf for a long minute, ears ringing. All he can feel is Eddie's tongue and teeth against his, the slick thrust of his cock against his prostate, and the white-hot ropes of his orgasm surging up from deep within his pelvis, splattering against Eddie's knuckles and the seat of the toilet below them. Eddie's hard thrusts are the only thing that alerts him, stuttering, and then the man bites into his lips, and floods him.  
  
Waylon would consider himself experienced, but he's never had a man come in his ass before. He loves it. He loves how his ass gets even slipperier, the wet sounds of Eddie's hips pumping in tiny thrusts as he chases the last of his climax. Eddie's hand slips up to the slight curve of Waylon's belly, smearing Waylon's come up over it, kneading it with his fingers.  
  
"I'm... filling you up, Darling," Eddie groans, and Waylon groans wordlessly with him. The aftershocks of his orgasm surge, another meager strand of semen leaking from his cock. Eddie's penis is still thick in his ass, milking his prostate. As Waylon starts to slump, Eddie takes hold of his wrists and wraps an arm around his chest, holding his body upright. Waylon goes boneless, breathing heavily, letting Eddie's cock pump the last spurts of his seed up inside him.  
  
They breathe for long seconds, glued together, and then Eddie kisses Waylon's temple. "I wish I could get you _pregnant_."  
  
Waylon laughs, open mouthed, startled. The spasm of his body pushes Eddie's softened cock free, a gush of semen following down Waylon's thighs. Eddie makes an unhappy sound, and releases Waylon's wrists, leaning back and lifting him with one arm. Waylon gasps as his feet come off the floor. Eddie pushes a hand between Waylon's legs. His searching fingers find Waylon's hole, and push in, plugging him. Waylon kicks his feet free of his pant legs and plants his feet on the toilet plumbing, bracing himself between Eddie's solid body and the wall, and squeezing his thighs around Eddie's wrist. His soft, overstimulated cock is pressed against Eddie's arm.  
  
Eddie stands like that, breathing heavily, his fingers wriggling in Waylon's hole. Waylon's body twitches with it, and he gasps, "Eddie..."  
  
Eddie leans back slightly. "Does it hurt?"  
  
Waylon shakes his head. "Nnf. Sensitive."  
  
"Should I stop?"  
  
Waylon pauses, an idea occurring to him. "Can I show you something?" he asks nervously.  
  
"Mm-hm," Eddie grunts distractedly, pressing his face into Waylon's hair. Wow, Waylon realizes. He really is a cuddler.  
  
Waylon spreads his legs, keeping his feet carefully braced, angling his pelvis up to give Eddie's hand more access. He flushes red at the sight of the man's hand between his legs, knees spread wide. He really is a slut. "P-push them in deeper."  
  
Eddie stills. "Really, Darling?"  
  
"Just for a minute," he says, and grunts as the man slowly complies, sliding his thick fingers into the tight heat, until they're buried to the knuckle. The pads press against the prostate. "Ah-! There, stop!"  
  
Eddie stops, curiously fingering the bulb of the gland. Waylon nearly doubles over. One last spurt of clear semen dribbles from his limp dick. He nearly wails. Eddie slowly pulls his fingers free, pressing them to Waylon's fluttering opening. "That... feels good?"  
  
"Yeah," Waylon grunts. "That's uh, the prostate. It makes it feel really good."  
  
Eddie makes a thoughtful sound, clearly not entirely believing Waylon's assurances. "You've... done this before."  
  
Waylon shivers, not sure what kind of response he should give to that, making a non-commital sound. Eddie responds with an unhappy growl.  
  
"I meant it earlier," Waylon says quietly, dropping his feet toward the floor. Eddie lets him go, his hands slipping up his body as Waylon slides down, turning toward him on wobbly legs. Waylon's entirely naked, and Eddie's still mostly clothed, his soft cock and testicles sticking out of the flap of his pants. Waylon glances down and Eddie somewhat self consciously tucks himself away. The man looks uncertain, and angry about his uncertainty. He also looks deeply unhappy. Waylon frowns, the warm afterglow of his orgasm fading. "I meant it. I'm yours. Only yours. If you want me."  
  
Eddie shakes his head, expression dark, and Waylon's heart sinks. Then, quietly, "I don't deserve you."  
  
Waylon's eyes widen. Eddie's face falls, and won't meet his eyes. "It was unforgivable. I let my emotions get the better of me. Now and... earlier. I was violent, and crude. It was unseemly. Entirely inappropriate behavior for a..." Eddie grimaces, gritting his teeth, as if disgusted with himself.  
  
"A... husband?" Waylon asks carefully. Eddie squeezes his eyes closed and makes a pained noise. "A lover?"  
  
Eddie meets his eyes, a shine of tears in them. "I'm so ashamed, Darling."  
  
Waylon's heart lurches in his chest. Experience tells him he could wake up tomorrow with an entirely new Eddie, an entirely new set of circumstances to navigate. But this one... He wishes he could keep this one.  
  
Carefully, Waylon plants his feet on the toilet seat and climbs up, bringing him to eye level with the Groom. He puts his hands on the man's face, leans in, and softly kisses him. On the corner of his mouth, first. Then the soft cheek over his teeth. Then his cheekbone. Eddie groans. Waylon pushes his lips close to Eddie's ear.  
  
"I love it," he whispers. "How passionate you are, for me. I love it when you say those vulgar things to me. It shows how much you want me."  
  
The Groom's breath hitches, and Waylon wraps his arms around his thick neck, pressing their cheeks together. "I love how protective you are, how angry you were when they took me from you. It shows how much you love me."  
  
Eddie's hands slide to his naked hips, sliding over his ribs.  
  
"And I forgive you for all of it, Eddie," Waylon murmurs. "Because I know you're trying. And because I love you."  
  
Eddie pulls back suddenly, and then he's kissing him hard, less invasive than before, but still mostly teeth. Waylon leans into it; he's never kissed like this before, and if someone had kissed him like this before, he would have walked out, but this is Eddie Gluskin, and this is how he kisses, and Waylon loves it.  
  
Eddie pulls away, panting, and puts a hand on Waylon's cheek. "What's your name?"  
  
Waylon's whole body flushes, and he clings to the man even tighter. "Waylon."  
  
"Waylon," the Groom repeats. He smiles shakily. "I don't know how I could have forgotten that, Darling."


	25. Chapter 25

The warm glow in him from the release of endorphins and oxytocin during his orgasm doesn't subside for the rest of the day. There's a part of him for which it never completely subsides.  
  
Not even unpacking the incident and all of its implications and ramifications brings him completely down, though it does do some hard work on it. On some basic level, he knows that excusing the man's violent behavior with a 'I know it's because you love me' is probably one of the more fucked up things he's done in his life. But this is Eddie Gluskin, serial killer and test subject for MKULTRA, essentially, a human weapon, and he's not sure the relationship could ever be something approaching healthy. The smart thing to do would be to run at the first opportunity. Waylon knows he won't.  
  
Because in the end, he's a test subject too. They're both variants. Neither of them is human anymore.  
  
The glow apparently follows Eddie too. In quiet moments, he hums, and Waylon keeps catching him looking at him and smiling.  
  
Compared to the response he'd gotten just that morning, it's, well, glowing.  
  
After Eddie helps Waylon down from the toilet and steps out, Waylon redresses, carefully reclaiming the tubes of lubricant and tucking them back into his pocket. His ass still feels slick and open as he steps from the curtained area and finds Eddie sitting on the bed, rubbing his fingers together under his nose, still sticky from the lube and semen he'd found in Waylon's asshole.  
  
"You should wash your hands," Waylon says with a smile. "We're both filthy. You'll get sick."  
  
Eddie shoots him a dark look, but there's a playful quirk to his lip. "I like the way you smell, Darling."  
  
"Not for much longer, if they don't let us bathe," Waylon grumbles, moving to the sink to wash himself up. The whole room is poorly ventilated and reeks of sex and sweat.  
  
He looks, again, at the neatness of the room, wondering why Eddie didn't destroy it in his rage. He has a quiet hope that maybe it's because Eddie didn't want to ruin Waylon's work, or that he didn't want Waylon to come back to a wreck.  
  
Eddie pads up behind him, still nearly silent, and wraps his arms around Waylon's shoulders, tucking them in the sink beside his own. Waylon snorts as Eddie playfully wrestles the soap from his hands and starts scrubbing both their hands at once. He's humming a song Waylon doesn't know.  
  
He'd lost track of the time, and is a bit startled when lunch arrives. The window is opaque, and has been since he'd reemerged from the bathroom area. He tries to put it out of his mind, whether anyone watched them. Whether anyone listened.  
  
Lunch is turkey sandwiches with chips, and it tastes amazing, Waylon's appetite worked up from the busy morning. Eddie isn't particularly talkative, but can't seem to stop smiling, so Waylon doesn't worry too much. He lets his mind wander to the incident downstairs, instead.  
  
Miles Upshur is the Walrider.  
  
More accurately, Miles is loaded with enough nanomachines to form a physical manifestation similar to the Walrider. Waylon recalls a remark Dr. Clark had made, about Eddie being the patient with the second most clouding in their scans. He'd bet money Miles is the first. That much nanotech jammed into a person, he'd just be a white blur. And he has no control over any of them.  
  
It's unsettling. No wonder the man had been worried about another incident. He knew he was carrying the thing around with him, acting of its own will. It could go off at any moment.  
  
There's something to consider though, in the fact that it hasn't acted, and the cases it HAS, have been in defense of the patients. They didn't act to defend him from Eddie because the swarm would have been acting against itself. He has to think that they didn't act when Dr. Clark drugged him and dragged him into Eddie's cell because he was not truly in danger. Maybe simply because he wasn't in pain. He also can't explain why Eddie would have so much clouding and yet, nothing happened to the guards assaulting him before Waylon intervened. Maybe the machines in Eddie's body work differently from his own.  
  
A chill goes through him, dampening the pleasure of the chemicals in his blood. Physical assault against the patients must have been rare, or the nanomachines were still re-coordinating, in order for there to be no noticeable incidents before now. A man's hand broke in mid-air. They'll see the incident downstairs for what it is. Things will be different.  
  
Eddie can't stop looking at him. He's staring at him as he eats, obsessive. He has a fawning look to him, like a man who's just fallen in love. Waylon tries to keep the impact of the thoughts in his head from reaching his face, projecting nothing other than satisfaction and contentment.  
  
After lunch, Eddie suggests they play cards again, since there's not much else to do. At this point, Waylon's guilt has set in, and he decides there's no better time to push hard then when they're both hopped up on feel-good chemicals.  
  
"Were you angry this morning? Before, I mean," Waylon asks clumsily, picking at his cards. He's still afraid to use specifics, fearful that the truth of what's happened won't match up with the narrative the Groom is living in.  
  
"What do you mean?" the man answers smoothly.  
  
"Um..." Waylon pauses. "When we first woke up. You wouldn't speak to me."  
  
Eddie's face sours as he's looking at his cards. Waylon says quickly "We don't have to talk about it. I was only-"  
  
"No," Eddie answers, grimacing. "No, you're quite right to ask. I was being unfair to you. I was so wrapped up in my own problems that I did not consider your feelings. And then you were gone, before I could..." He pauses, swallowing. "I've had... difficulty, with relationships."  
  
Waylon waits, letting the man parse his own thoughts, as his mouth works open and closed. "Difficulty with my... inclinations."  
  
He waits even longer, until it's clear the man is unsure how to continue, deep in his own thoughts. Waylon gulps, pressing, "Do you mean the... the murders, or... _men_?"  
  
The Groom gives him a sharp look, and then chuckles gloomily. "It's all part of the package, I suppose." He gives up on his cards, shuffling the deck together. "I had been thinking... that you were too good to be true. I'd been struggling, barely surviving, and then here you were, just when I needed you."  
  
Waylon hands over his cards to be shuffled in, a knot rising in his throat. He hates that he can't just be honest with him, that if he tried to explain himself, it might not fit with Eddie's narrative, that the man might misunderstand. He doesn't want to be some pretend wife. He wants to be himself, with Eddie. He wants Eddie to want HIM, not some _dream_.  
  
"And I've been confused," Eddie sighs, dealing a new hand. "I'm not sure why, but I thought you were a woman. Isn't that something? I thought we were married."  
  
Waylon stiffens. So, not the wife any longer. What, then?  
  
"Can you imagine?" Eddie chuckles, fingering his cards. "Two men, getting married."  
  
Waylon frowns, replying defensively, "Men can get married."  
  
Eddie stops moving, smile frozen on his face. It's like he's stopped functioning. Waylon locks up; he's definitely overstepped, though not sure how much. But then the man draws in a deep breath, and laughs. "You have a funny sense of humor, Darling."  
  
"I'm not joking," Waylon insists despite himself. "Men can get married. Not in Colorado or Oregon, yet, but... Up in Washington, and some states in New England. Minnesota did earlier this year..." He trails off as Eddie seems to stall again. The man's been locked up for years, he realizes. He might have no idea. Hell, Waylon's been locked up too. Maybe the laws have changed again.  
  
"Legally?" Eddie asks, incredulous. "Why on earth would they allow that?"  
  
Waylon's frown deepens. Eddie might have found some way to accept his attractions to men, but it's clear the vein of homophobia still runs deep in him. Gently, trying to keep the acid from his tone, he replies, "Men can love each other and still want a family. Is it really that ridiculous?"  
  
The man's gaze, sharp and disbelieving, slowly grows distant. He stays like that, for a long time. Waylon fidgets in his chair. He answered impulsively, not just out of his natural defenses, but also because... because the idea of losing that intimacy, that special place beside Eddie, it makes him feel abandoned. If he's not the spouse, what is he to Eddie? Truly just another whore to stick his dick into? The bile rises in his throat at it. His guilt over being untruthful drowns in it.  
  
"Are _we_..." Eddie asks slowly, as if it's taking great effort. "... _married_?"  
  
Lie to him, the voice insists. Lie to him. Lie.  
  
"Y-yes," Waylon answers. "Why else would they have let me in here with you?"  
  
Eddie stares at him, bewildered. The deck of cards is still clenched in his hand. Waylon feels sick to his stomach. He hates himself. He should be bringing the man closer to reality, not creating new fictions around him. He's selfish, and pathetic, and-  
  
Eddie cracks open. He emerges from deep within himself, slowly, like a blooming flower, and the expression on his face as he looks at Waylon is unbridled wonder and joy. "Of course. How could I have forgotten that?"  
  
Waylon feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. He pushes his hands across the table and grabs the Groom's, his small, fine boned fingers wrapping around the large, thick ones.  
  
"My head is such a jumble, Waylon," Eddie murmurs. "This must... This must be so difficult for you."  
  
Waylon sobs, and the dam breaks on his tears, flooding his eyes and spilling down his cheeks. He presses his forehead to the table between them. "I'm sorry," he cries. "I'm sorry that you're here. For what happened to you. I'm sorry I can't... I want to help you but I..."  
  
Eddie pulls his hands free, and reaches to tilt Waylon's crying face up toward his. "Oh Darling..." he breathes. "There's nothing you should ever feel sorry for." He leans forward and presses his warm lips to Waylon's forehead, stilling there. "You've given me such a gift. I had thought... I had thought it possible that my feelings for you were imagined. That we were strangers. But now I know that they're real. What I feel for you... and what you feel for me, it's real."  
  
"What I feel for you is real," Waylon answers desperately, clutching the man's wrists. He can be truthful in that, at least. "It's _real_."  
  
And isn't that the kicker, in the end. In Mount Massive, the thing he'd feared most. Now he's in love with it.  
  
"I'm going to protect you," Waylon babbles. "I won't let anything happen to you. I swear. As long as I'm alive."  
  
Eddie smiles against his skin. "You really do say the oddest things sometimes, Darling."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note about what Waylon says about certain states and marriage: according to the wikia, the Walrider Incident took place in September 2013; nearly half of US states (including Colorado and Oregon) didn't legalize same sex marriage until 2014.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slurs and more homophobia in this one, sorry.

The quality of Eddie's mood is strange, after that. He's still happy. Nearly overwhelmingly so, with the weight of Waylon's lie hanging over them. But there's an element of surprise to it now. He looks at Waylon as if he adores him, but also, as if he's a miracle. Like each time he looks away, he expects to look back at thin air.  
  
Waylon thinks, if he had still been on the Murkoff payroll, he'd have gotten a raise out of this.  
  
He tries to play along, projecting the joy of a spouse remembered, but inside he's sour. He's angry. He hates that Murkoff has brought him to this.  
  
He's also resolute. He'd felt himself responsible for this man, for all of them, before, even when he was an employee. But now, even more so. Everything that happens to Eddie Gluskin from this point on is his responsibility, and his fault. And so he projects that too, the determination to do anything for him. Devotion.  
  
They play more cards. Eddie asks him about gay marriage, haltingly, as if he doesn't quite know the language. It's not 'gay marriage' but 'male marriage'; he seems to come up against a wall over the term 'gay'. Waylon answers as truthfully as he can. He wants to be truthful.  
  
Eddie has a twitch to him too, shifting in his seat. Like he can't sit still. Short movements, Waylon notices, toward him. Eddie notices him noticing and smiles bashfully. "It's difficult to control myself. I find myself eager to be near you, to touch you. But it wouldn't be appropriate, when anyone could be watching us."  
  
Waylon nods and sips at the remnants of the water that had come with lunch. It's anticipatory, and he wonders if, in the night, in the dark, Eddie's going to touch him again. He's visibly hungry for it, those blue eyes raking over him. It depresses him, because he's a liar, because he's taking advantage, because he had wanted this because of his kink and his testosterone-laden lizard brain that had seen a caricature rather than the truth of the man, with all his human agency and sentience and pain. But he doesn't believe there's anything he can do about it, so he let's his cock swell.  
  
They eat dinner, meatloaf and potatoes, and no one visits. Eddie's taught him all the card games he knows.  
  
"Waylon," Eddie says solemnly over dinner, and Waylon doesn't think he'll ever not enjoy the sound of his name in _that_ voice. "I want to ask you something difficult."  
  
He doesn't think anything could be more difficult than what they've already discussed. "You can ask me anything, Eddie."  
  
The man shifts toward him again, and then back, consciously, with great effort. Eddie struggles for a long moment, twirling the fork in his vegetables. "When did you know that you liked other men?"  
  
He wasn't expecting this. "Oh... Um. High school, I suspected. College for sure."  
  
The man nods slowly, deliberating. There would have been no journey of self discovery for Eddie Gluskin, Waylon realizes. He was far too damaged at far too young an age to be able to indulge in such a thing. He's on that journey _now_. In his late forties, crazy out of his mind, locked up in a corporate prison. Waylon feels that surge of protectiveness again.  
  
"Did anyone ever... hurt you, because of it?"  
  
"Nothing violent. I was called names, a few times," Waylon says. He recalls a time when he was young and holding his athletic boyfriend's hand on the street. Men in a passing car had screamed it. "The usual. 'Cocksucker.' 'Faggot.'" That particular word is sharp and hateful in his own mouth, bringing a sneer to his lips.  
  
Eddie pushes himself back roughly from the table, and Waylon jerks. "Ah, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have even said-"  
  
"It's alright," Eddie answers, breathing heavily through his nose, fingers gripping the wood of the table so hard it creaks. "It just makes me sick to my stomach that anyone would say that shit to you. Pardon my language."  
  
"You can curse as much as you want when it comes to bigots," Waylon jokes uncomfortably. Then he sobers, taking in the man across from him, struggling from the utterance of that vile word. "Did someone hurt _you_?"  
  
It takes a long time. Eddie breathes, his forearms trembling from the tension built within him, as he gradually uncoils. Waylon wonders if, a few days ago, the man would be smashing the table. It's more likely the combination of medications keeping him sane, but Waylon feels a flutter at the thought that maybe his presence helps too.  
  
"My... father," Eddie says, with great difficulty. "Told me that it had to be punished. That he would... give me what I was after, until I stopped wanting it."  
  
Waylon puts his fork down. He might vomit. "How old were you?" he whispers.  
  
"Not even old enough to know what I was being punished for." Quietly, "He thought he was fixing me."  
  
"He was a rapist and a pedophile," Waylon says firmly. "He did it for himself, not you."  
  
"No, that was my uncle. My father... my father... I think he really believed it. That it would change me. He knew what I was, before I did."  
  
"And what are you?" Waylon asks angrily. Angry at the piece of shit human beings that would do this to a child. Angry that they're already dead and won't suffer for it again. "What did he say you are?"  
  
He can see the shape of the word on the man's lips, but then he looks at Waylon, eyes bright in those dark sockets. He folds his hands in his lap, shoulders slumped, and somehow, this big, powerful man looks vulnerable. "I can't say that filthy slur in front of you, Darling. I don't want to bring... those _people_ , into this, any more than they have to be." That pinch appears between his eyebrows as he struggles with the words. "But I... You deserve to know, why I've been so... strange, when we..." He trails off.  
  
"It's okay," Waylon says. He remembers the night they put him in Eddie's cell, the panic attack he'd had upon seeing the dropped lubricant. Waylon had tried to comfort him then, too. It feels feeble, never enough.  
  
"I always thought it would be an ugly thing," Eddie murmurs. "I didn't know it could be... like that. So..." He inhales deeply, then exhales. " _Beautiful_."  
  
Waylon blushes and looks at the floor, thinking of himself, folded over a toilet with his fingers in his ass, begging for his cock. Beautiful is not a word that leaps to mind. But then he thinks about the very particular rush of orgasm he's experienced with Eddie... and maybe the word's not quite strong enough.  
  
Eddie is picking at the hem of his shirt disdainfully when Waylon manages to look up again. "I... don't want to keep telling you these terrible things, Darling. I'm afraid I'm going to frighten you off."  
  
"You can tell me anything," Waylon insists. "I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Eddie looks at him a long time, with a soft, sad smile on his face, and slowly, steadily, the smile falls. His eyes glaze, his eyebrows furrow. It's the Groom's face, the wrathful one, the one that chased Waylon through the worst parts of his nightmares. But he doesn't look away. He can't anymore.  
  
"The worst thing about it..." He mutters, voice low but lilting, thumbs pressed into the stitching of his shirt. "My mother taught me to sew, before she died. I would make clothes for my toys. That was why he started. That if I wanted to play like a girl, he'd treat me like one. He told me that it made me _wrong_. Made me weak. Because I liked to sew." His mouth stretches open, lips tight around his bright teeth, something like a grin. "So I sewed the noose I wrapped around my father's neck and hung him with. I sewed the sack and binding straps that I used on my uncle when I drowned him. To show them how wrong they were. That there was nothing _weak_ about it at all." He takes a hitching breath, euphoric in the memory of the moment he regained some control over his life, and began to kill. And kill. And kill.  
  
"Do you think that was wrong of me, Darling?" he asks, his eyes focusing suddenly on Waylon, still set in that unhinged expression.  
  
Waylon isn't sure when he started smiling. But he can't stop. He doesn't want to. "Not at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally thought there was something in canon that referenced the deaths of his father and uncle, but as I read up more I realized I probably got that from other fanfic...


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much just smut in this one :)

The remainder of the day is uneventful. It makes Waylon anxious, after the incident downstairs, that no one has even come to talk to him. It's worrisome. He expected more of a rush of activity. Maybe they're just missing it, locked up in here. Maybe the doctors are underestimating it.  
  
That night, Eddie's erection keeps bumping into him as they stand overlapped at the sink brushing their teeth, and Waylon's doubts slowly slip away. It's wrong, he knows it, but he's also fearful of what it would mean for Eddie, to be rejected now after everything they've talked about. Not just possibly ending in Waylon's death. But the man's come so far since the Groom. On some level, it must be healthy. That's what Waylon tells himself.  
  
After lights out, Waylon lies on his back as Eddie cuddles up to him, the larger man still slightly awkward about sharing a bed, not certain where to put his limbs. Waylon has the half empty tube of lubricant under his pillow. Eddie lies quiet for minutes, staring at him in the dark, before he can't help himself, and runs his hand up the inside of Waylon's thigh, hot and rough through his pant leg. "Can I..."  
  
Waylon was waiting for it. He hikes his pants and underwear down over his hips and kicks them down somewhere beneath the covers. "Yes."  
  
Eddie rubs his hand over Waylon's bare thighs, fingernails catching the fine hair there, before sweeping it up the soft inner joint of his thigh where it connects to his pelvis. Waylon's breath hitches. The man grins against the fabric of his shoulder. "I love seeing how much you want me..."  
  
Waylon pushes a hand between their bodies and gently grasps the shape of Eddie's large cock through the fabric of his pants. "Same."  
  
Eddie groans. "It's far too early, I can still hear their boots thunking around outside- But I can't wait. I've been thinking of this all day." He slips his large hand down into the humid space between Waylon's balls and hole, pressing at the soft, delicate skin there.  
  
"I'll try to be quiet," Waylon gasps. "But I can't promise anything."  
  
Eddie runs his fingers up over Waylon's testicles, which tighten under the contact, his cock twitching upward. Eddie feels it, breath coming in large, deep sighs over Waylon's chest. His fingers wander up, toying with the wispy dark hair at the base of his cock, before wrapping his fingers and thumb around it in a loose grip. He runs his thumb up and down experimentally, tugging the foreskin away from the head, fingers stroking the veins on the underside. Waylon tries not to squirm, letting Eddie explore; the touch isn't firm enough to be arousing, not loose enough to be ticklish. But the fact that he's got Eddie Gluskin willingly touching his cock is a miracle, and he's determined to let him play with it however he wants.  
  
"You're so... small," Eddie murmurs, holding the weight of Waylon's cock in his curled hand. Waylon snorts. His penis is modest, but certainly not insubstantial. Eddie's just monstrously big. The length of it reaches just the width of the Groom's palm; if he closed his fist around it at the root, all that would be visible is the shiny pink head.  
  
"It's... cute," Eddie continues, running his thumb up against the delicate membrane of the head, and Waylon's complaints melt away. "It suits you."  
  
"Does that mean you think I'm cute?" Waylon asks teasingly.  
  
"I think you're adorable..." Eddie punctuates it with a kiss to Waylon's shoulder, breath heating the fabric over his skin. "And sweet." Another kiss, to his chest. "And lovely." His mouth finds Waylon's nipple, suckling it through the cloth. Waylon moans, feeling a current of lust shoot through him from his tit to his balls and still aching hole.  
  
"And... handsome," Eddie says, pushing himself up on his elbow to lean over Waylon, so they're face to face, tucked into the dark envelope of the blankets. "Strong." He presses his lips to Waylon's chin, and then the corner of his mouth. "Charming." Waylon trembles, and then the Groom is kissing him, tentatively, exploring the shape of his mouth with his own. Waylon kisses back, making soft sounds into it. He bites gently at the man's lips, enormously pleased when the Groom groans back.  
  
Eddie's hand, which had been carefully gripping him, slips away, down his ball sac and perineum and presses against the tight, flexing furl of his asshole. It's still a bit tender and sensitive, and Waylon's whole body twitches. Eddie hesitates and pulls away. "Should I not..."  
  
"It's okay," Waylon gasps, fumbling for the lube. He has yet another flashback as he brings it into view and Eddie's eyes widen at it, and Waylon resolves to ask for a plain bottle for it in the very near future. "I'm uh, still a bit sore from earlier, so we just have to go slow."  
  
Eddie shakes his head, pulling further away, and in the dark Waylon can see the man's face start to close, his body posture tighten. "We don't have to-"  
  
"I want to," Waylon says. He bites his lip, then, quieter, "I... like it. When it hurts a little."  
  
Eddie grimaces. "I don't like the thought of hurting you."  
  
"It's more, like," Waylon struggles for words, not sure how to explain pleasure/pain to a man with such a complicated relationship to sex. "Like drinking coffee that's just a little too hot. Or jumping into an ice cold pool in the summer."  
  
Eddie makes a skeptical sound, but he returns, his hand moves back to Waylon's anus, rubbing lightly. Waylon shivers, and reaches for his hand. "Do you want to do this part?"  
  
Eddie hesitates, trembling, and then puts his hand in Waylon's. "You promise you'll let me know if I'm hurting you?"  
  
"I promise." Waylon squeezes a generous amount of lube onto the man's fingers, then flops back against the pillows, hitching his knees up and spreading his legs wider.   
  
The other man notices, and looks at Waylon with a smirk. "Darling, I'm trying to be polite, but it's quite difficult when you do things like that."  
  
Waylon grins back, pushing his own shirt up to his armpits to expose his rosy nipples. "Like what?"  
  
"Oh, you test me," Eddie growls as he puts his mouth to the newly exposed skin, and presses his wet fingers against Waylon's hole.  
  
They lie like that awhile, Eddie mouthing his nipples, jaw flexing through his flushed cheeks as he sucks, and slowly rubbing his hole. Waylon closes his eyes and sighs into it, letting his arousal build, until he almost can't lie still, spine flexing involuntarily to push his ass against the bedsheets. Eddie follows him, keeps his fingers on him, but doesn't push in.  
  
"Please," Waylon gasps. "I'm ready. Put your finger in. Just one."  
  
Eddie hesitates, lifting his mouth from Waylon's chest, a strand of saliva dribbling from his lips which he quickly licks away. Then he lays himself against Waylon's body, elbow propping him up, so he's over him, nearly face to face. He looks right into Waylon's face as he rubs his digit against the muscle, and slowly pushes in. Waylon meets his eyes and bears down, making the slide easy, his hole practically sucking his finger in, and Eddie gasps and closes his eyes in shock. "You really are... very good at this..."  
  
"I am," Waylon urges eagerly.  
  
Eddie flexes his finger against the tight rippled muscles of his rectum. “It’s tight... You were so... wide open this morning..."   
  
"Massage it," Waylon says. "It's a muscle. You loosen it by... rubbing..." Eddie wiggles his finger clumsily, a surprising and foreign motion, reminding Waylon's body that it's a stranger touching him, not himself. It sends another quiver through him.   
  
"Loose," Eddie murmurs thoughtfully, his finger finding a slow rhythm. Waylon wants to writhe on the bed, to thrash and push at Eddie until he holds him down and opens him up fast and rough, but he restrains himself. He had it his way before. He needs to let Eddie have this. He tilts his head back, so the tip of his nose brushes Eddie's, who seems mesmerized by the motion of his wrist between Waylon's legs.  
  
"You can put two in now," Waylon sighs, putting his hands up on Eddie's waist to ground himself.   
  
Eddie obeys, pulling his finger out and then pushing in two, sighing again at the tight heat of it. "Amazing."  
  
Waylon looks down between their bodies again. Eddie has pushed up, putting space between them, so he can see his hand working, and in the dark Waylon can study the length of the Groom's body, muscled and masculine in his too tight shirt and pants, his cock tenting the fabric and leaking a wet stain onto his crotch. Waylon hikes his legs up further, slipping his ankles from beneath the man's large body and hooking them up at his hips, tilting his pelvis. Opening himself more.  
  
" _Tramp_ ," Eddie says with a shudder, like he couldn't control himself, dropping his hips as though he's about to fuck into him right there. "God, sorry."  
  
"It's okay, it's okay," Waylon gasps, his slim calves locking along Eddie's flanks, feeling the tremble of restraint in his body, the heaving of his chest. "Three fingers now."  
  
Eddie pushes in three and it burns, so Waylon reaches down between them and squeezes more lube onto his taint, gravity carrying it down onto Eddie's fingers and into his hole as Eddie works his hand in and out. The man's thumb presses into the crease of his leg on each slide inward, his pinky scratching the hair at the base of his balls. Waylon's body is more than prepared after a few thrusts, but the feel of those thick knuckles catching at his rim on every inward push is heavenly, and he feels no rush. Waylon looks up at his face again and finds the man's eyes closed, concentrating on the sensation in his hand. Waylon lets his own hands trail over the muscular chest and abdomen over him, pushing his shirt up, studying the sweat gathering on his skin, the gnarls of scar tissue on his stomach and chest, almost completely healed. He holds the man's shirt up with one hand and drops his other slowly, running it down his naked belly, and pinching at the base of his own cock.  
  
Eddie's speed slows, and when Waylon looks up, Eddie's looking down at him, that same confused but wondrous look. Like he's both surprised and delighted to know that Waylon finds him attractive, the evidence clear between them, flushed and pink and hard in Waylon's fist. Waylon pushes an arm up under his shirt and hooks it around his neck, still holding his own cock. "I'm ready," he says.  
  
Eddie grunts, pulling his fingers free, almost reluctantly, and then pushing his hand down his own pants and palming his cock. He pulls it out, spreading the excess lube over the head like he'd seen Waylon do that morning. It's flushed so dark from restraint that it's almost purple, his balls hitched up tight underneath, fat and full. The salty smell of him doubles as his cock comes out. Waylon salivates, flattening his own cock to his belly with his palm, so he can see the man push forward.   
  
"Gagging for it," Eddie murmurs in a low voice. The head of his cock kisses up against Waylon's anus, slipping a little too high up and then down, before finding purchase. Then Eddie slips in, a little fast, and bottoms out even faster, sending Waylon scooting up the bed a couple inches and banging the headboard into the wall.   
  
"Ahh!" Waylon wails, because it's more forceful than he expected after the tentative prep, and it burns, but god it feels so good. He squeezes his own cock and balls in his hand, fingers pressing into his perineum to help his prostate along, and to feel the surge of muscle as Eddie pushes roughly into him again.  
  
"Such a slut," Eddie hisses. "Taking it like you were made for it." His hips stutter and his face changes as he realizes what he's said. "Ungh, I'm so sorry, Darling, I-"  
  
"It's true," Waylon interrupts desperately, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling thick hot cock penetrating his guts. "God it's true, Eddie, honey, I love it, I'm such a slut-"  
  
Eddie makes a noise deep in his chest, almost pained. His hand comes down on the bed near Waylon's shoulder, gripping the sheets so hard they squeak in his still wet fingers. Waylon can smell the scent of his own body on them, sharp and pungent, as Eddie roughly pumps his cock in and out, rolling his hips experimentally to press at Waylon's walls from new angles. "You like it when I say those things. Why?"  
  
Waylon stammers for words, brain gone foggy. The truth is that the idea of being used makes him hard, an object for someone else to find their release in, a fucktoy. It's a primal aspect of his sexuality, born from some aspect of his upbringing which he's never bothered to think too much about. It's another thing he's not sure he'll ever be able to explain properly. "I... It's because... Because you see me for what I am." He gasps on a particularly vicious thrust which assaults his prostate and makes his toes tingle. "And you love me anyway."  
  
Eddie's hips stutter wildly and press in deep, and Waylon thinks for a moment that he's come, but then he laughs and starts a new rhythm, slower, longer thrusts, dragging his cockhead out to the rim before pushing wetly back in to the base. The lube has spread, wet in Eddie's pubic hair and dripping down the crack of Waylon's ass to his tailbone, and makes a sticky sound each time Eddie pulls his pelvis away from the backs of Waylon's thighs. "How many men have had you like this?"  
  
"Not like this." It's truthful, in the ways Waylon means it. "It never felt like this with them. You're the best."  
  
"Your favorite fuck?" Eddie asks, the snarl in his teeth evident in his voice. It's a dangerous sound, but it just makes Waylon surge closer to orgasm.  
  
"My favorite everything," he answers, pulling his hand away from his cock and wrapping both arms around his strong neck.   
  
The Groom gasps, but doesn't falter, the power behind his thrusts intensifying, pushing Waylon into the mattress. His voice is pitched even lower when he speaks, breath hot on Waylon's ear. "Tell me what it is about this filthy thing that you love so much."  
  
"Mmf-" Waylon rubs his heels down Eddie's back, pushing at the hem of his pants, then digging them into the swell of Eddie's ass and pulling him in on the next slow push in. "How strong you are. How you hold me." He gasps on a particularly rough jolt. "Y-your cock. It's so _big_." He muffles a groan in Eddie's shoulder as the man presses down on him, his thrusts speeding up. "The shape is perfect. It hits all the best spots."  
  
"Ah-" Eddie grunts, his pace picking up even more, the flex of his stomach rubbing Waylon's cock through his t-shirt. "Such a... such a _tart_..."  
  
Waylon is already close to the peak when Eddie gets his knees under him, finding real leverage, and the crown of Waylon's head hits the headboard. Eddie pushes up and back, his hands slipping to Waylon's naked hips and gripping them tight, pulling him onto his cock as he rears up and starts pumping rapidly, and Waylon loses it, wriggling in Eddie's grip while simultaneous locking his ankles around his body. He can feel the meat of his ass jiggling under Eddie's fingers under each rapid thrust as he bounces on his cock. With Eddie looming so far over him, the blankets fall away, and Waylon knows that if someone standing on the other side of the window hit the lights at that moment, they'd see. They'd see all of it.  
  
It must be the farthest thing from Eddie's mind at the moment because Waylon peels his eyes open just then to find the man's face, and finds his head rolled back, only the red sclera showing through the slit of his eyelid, just as he pushes in balls deep and comes. Waylon feels the hot wet slippery flood of it in his guts, surging out despite the tight seal of Eddie's cock, dribbling down the crack of his ass to his tailbone. Eddie's body gives a few tiny rhythmic pushes, on autopilot, like an animal. The urge to come is all-consuming, his spine bowing as he fights the Groom's steel grip on his hips, his anus clenching involuntarily around Eddie's thick cock, trying to grind his prostate down into it.  
  
A cry slips out of him, uncontrolled, full throated and wordless and ecstatic. The sound of his own voice in the small room surrounding Eddie's small grunts as he empties himself tips him over. He whites out as his dick pulses untouched on his belly, semen emerging in thick lazy spurts.  
  
He floats. His mind is a haze. Everything vanishes, and it's just him, warm and comfortable. The cells in his body luxuriate in the endorphins. Eddie's invisible, but the points of contact with him are electrified, every small shift sending fluttering aftershocks through his body.  
  
Waylon comes back to himself when Eddie slumps to the side, chest still heaving, and his half soft cock slips from his asshole, followed by a rush of his copious fluids. Waylon lets it empty onto the bedspread and Eddie's thigh, which is still wedged under him. There's so _much_ , he feels like he's drenching the bed with it.   
  
"You're glorious," he gasps, trying to wrangle his breathing into control. "I've never... I've never..."  
  
Eddie rolls over him, pulling the blankets back up over them in a quick motion. Waylon reaches for him, and Eddie folds in, pressing his forehead to Waylon's chest, letting him cradle him. Waylon feels another open mouthed kiss against his flesh, a hint of teeth, wet and dragging.   
  
"Mine," Eddie murmurs. "I can't believe you're mine."


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was two chapters, but then I realized nothing really happened in the first one, so I combined them into a long one. Final chapter count will need some adjusting eventually.

In the night, Waylon eventually squirms away from the wet spot of fluids on the mattress and rolls Eddie over, sprawling on top of him. Eddie doesn't protest, making an almost satisfied noise at Waylon's slight weight on top of him. They fall back asleep that way, and sleep like the dead, so in the morning when people arrive, that's how they find them.  
  
Waylon wakes to the thunk of the tray as breakfast arrives, startling him up from Eddie's chest and the small puddle of drool he's left there. He glances at the trays and then up at the window, expecting that usual opaque blankness obscuring the staff. Instead, he's met with Dr. Clark's self-satisfied smirk. Waylon can't prevent himself from cringing; he's lying naked under the thin blankets on top of Eddie Gluskin, whose soft sticky cock is still poking through his pants, smushed up against Waylon's bare thigh. Although she couldn't possibly know the specifics, her expression implies that she's extremely aware of all of that.  
  
"Good morning," she says cheerily. "Sleep well?"  
  
Waylon groans. Eddie, roused by the sound of her voice, echoes him, before wrapping his arms around Waylon and rolling them, as if trying to obscure Waylon from view.  
  
"I know you're both worn out, but unfortunately I can't wait around all day. Come on, up up! I have your pills." She seems chipper. Things must be going well with Murkoff, despite yesterday's incident with the nanotech. The thought is enough to perk Waylon up a bit, and he squirms out of Eddie's grip and through the mostly dried patch of body fluids on the bed, locating his pants under the blankets. Maneuvering into them while staying concealed under the blankets is a chore, particularly around the box of the ankle monitor, and he's still struggling with it when Eddie finally tucks his dick away and rises from the bed.  
  
"Surely a married couple has some right to privacy," Eddie growls at her through the glass, moving to collect their breakfast and transport it to the small table.  
  
Waylon stiffens, realizing that Dr. Clark may still think he's playing wife. Waylon and Eddie spoke quietly when they discussed their relationship and sexualities, so he doesn't think anyone outside could have heard easily. He gives her a wide eyed look as he locates his shirt and struggles it on, but she doesn't seem thrown. "Well, if things go well today, you'll be very happy then."  
  
Eddie and Waylon glance at each other, then shoot Dr. Clark a suspicious look.  
  
"We're going to do a little test run," she explains. "Dr. Lin told me that you'd like to take a shower. I have to agree that it's becoming quite _crucial_ for the pair of you to do so." Her eyes flit to the dirty bed, and Waylon flushes.  
  
"Both of us," Eddie ventures. "No splitting us up."  
  
"It's my understanding that you requested that yesterday morning," she says curtly, prompting Eddie to glance at Waylon and avert his eyes grumpily. "We have no intention of separating you again unless you request it. Now come over here and take your pills."  
  
They reluctantly obey, collecting their cups from the tray and downing them under her sharp gaze. Eddie's appears to be the usual cocktail. Waylon's is back down to two pills. This time the antibiotic is missing. "I'm assuming I'm no longer at risk for infection?"  
  
She smirks at him while simultaneously narrowing her eyes at the sass in his tone. "Your course is up. And since you have no more serious injuries, you're out of the woods. As long as you play it safe." She winks. Waylon gives her a flat look.  
  
Standing up next to the window, Waylon can see that the woman is accompanied by a single guard, but no doctors. No sign of Dr. Lin, curiously. She's tapping away at her tablet as she speaks. "We have a small bathroom and communal shower on this floor that we use for patients who are cooperative. We've allowed the less volatile men to use it while they were living up here. Since Eddie did so well yesterday morning, even with the two of you apart, we decided to give you a shot."  
  
She looks up, taking in the pair of them, standing side by side, waiting. She looks at Waylon for a long moment, until he's self conscious again, and he wonders what she sees. He wonders if it's because of the way he stands beside the man he's locked up with, no longer constantly fearful of him, tiptoeing through every conversation like it's a minefield. "Get some breakfast in you. Some people will be back for you in about an hour."  
  
Waylon can't think of any good reason to argue, and he's frankly tired of speaking with her, so he just nods. Eddie doesn't offer any argument either. She grins as she walks out of view. "Have fun, you two."  
  
Breakfast is very American: scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. There's a small yogurt with granola that Eddie regards disdainfully, until Waylon says "It's a probiotic, it's good for you."  
  
"I'm not sure what that means, but I trust you, Darling," he says, finishing it reluctantly.  
  
Waylon's heart skips, a warm feeling rising in his chest. He feels silly, because it's over _yogurt_ of all things, but hell, he'll take it.  
  
As the minutes slip by, his anticipation swells. As much as he hates Dr. Clark, a good hot shower is probably on his list of top ten favorite things. Especially after being locked up in Mount Massive, and the cesspools he wallowed through during his escape, after the Walrider started turning everyone to soup. And as much as he doesn't especially mind smelling like Eddie and jizz, he has to admit the tackiness of his skin and greasiness of his hair is getting a little uncomfortable. He's also finally feeling a little itchy around his chin; his facial hair is slow growing, what little of it CAN grow, and always comes in patchy, which is why he prefers to keep it bare. He's crossing his fingers for a razor.  
  
He notices Eddie fidgeting as they finish breakfast and the end of the hour approaches. He looks nervous and slightly angry, nothing as severe as the previous day, but still enough to concern him.  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
Eddie glances up at him, then down again, frowning deeply. "I'm not fond of the idea of the pair of us stripping bare in a strange place. Who knows what these beasts will do?"  
  
"We can take turns, if you're nervous about it?" Waylon suggests.  
  
"Aren't YOU nervous about it?" Eddie asks accusingly. "I can defend myself. Those men out there, in their boots and their body armor, they're all at least a head taller than you!" Eddie sighs, leaning in. "Do you know how fragile and delicate you looked when they took you away?"  
  
Waylon frowns deeply. "I can defend myself too. Just because I'm small doesn't make me helpless."  
  
"But Darling-"  
  
"You're right to worry," Waylon interrupts him. "Some of them are bad guys. Like the ones who broke your nose." He thinks there's a part of him that should have sympathized with that particular guard; Eddie had just killed several of his workmates in front of him. But then he remembers the nauseating sound of Eddie's nose breaking. "But, honestly, I think most of them would just rather not be here." He leans back, studying Eddie's face as he clenches his jaw in thought. "We just have to watch each other's backs. There's two of us now."  
  
Eddie's eyes flicker to him again, but there's a warmth in them this time. "I'm still not sure about it, but I don't sense that she gave us much choice."  
  
"I think she wants us out of here," he says lowly. "I've heard they need these cells for something. If we behave, they might send us downstairs. There's _privacy_ down there. Rooms without observation windows. Bathrooms with doors on them."  
  
Eddie's face lights up at the word 'privacy', grinning salaciously. Waylon waggles his eyebrows flirtatiously. "Plus, trust me, you'll like me even better when I'm _clean_."  
  
"I like you however I can have you, Darling," Eddie hums. "But the idea of getting you dirty again is _enticing_."  
  
Waylon grins back, poking the pink tip of his tongue through his white teeth. "There's lots of things I can do to you when you're clean, as well."  
  
Eddie's expression crumbles, face a mess of lust and hunger. "You _ruin_ me, Waylon."  
  
There's the warm feeling again. It occurs to Waylon that he hasn't heard from that little voice in awhile.  
  
Dr. Lin is among the small gaggle of guards who comes for them. She seems tired again, and despite her best efforts, unfocused. She gives them a brief rundown on the procedure. They get 20 minutes. There will be guards posted at the entrance, which is open. They'll get a fresh kit, shampoo and soap, and a change of clothes. They get a single safety razor between them, which will be confiscated upon exit.  
  
"It's a reward," she says. She doesn't say that it's also a test run to see how they do relatively unsupervised, but Waylon guesses. He also has a growing suspicion that there's more to it than that, particularly as he notices Eddie becoming more and more tightly wound through the brief conversation. Waylon had considered asking her about the incident yesterday, unsure just how to phrase it without giving away his concerns, but in light of Eddie's dampening mood, he let's it go.  
  
"We're not using restraints," she says as she finishes her explanation. "But in order to proceed, we are going to have to use this." She pulls a thick black band from her coat pocket, identical to the one around Waylon's ankle. It's Waylon's turn to stiffen.  
  
"It’s the same as the one on W- on your wife’s leg. It tracks your location, and is capable of giving you a shock. This will happen automatically if you tamper with it. It's waterproof, so it won't cause you a problem while showering.”  
  
Eddie's eyes widen. "You put an electrocuting device around my Darling's leg?!"  
  
He hasn't really acknowledged the small strap on Waylon's ankle, so it surprises him that it's the first place Eddie's mind goes. The man really does have more clarity of thought than he did at the beginning. Dr. Lin's eyes widen too, glancing between them.  
  
"It's only for use in emergency situations," she says, and Waylon suppresses a disbelieving snort. "We're fitting most of the patients with them. It allows you more freedom of movement while still keeping track of you."  
  
Waylon bites his lip. He still hasn't considered how he's going to deal with the monitor on his own leg. With Eddie restrained in the same way, their situation becomes even more impossible, chances of escape dwindling to nearly nothing. But saying no keeps them in this cell, unable to act or even communicate. The other patients could riot and flee right out the front door while the two of them are still locked in upstairs.  
  
He looks at Eddie, takes in his tightly wound posture. Ultimately, it's up to him. Eddie looks back, still fuming, but then he glances down at Waylon's ankle, making firm eye contact again. The message is clear. If Waylon can tolerate it, so will Eddie.  
  
"I'll wear it."  
  
"Pass it through and I'll put it on him," Waylon adds, but Dr. Lin's already shaking her head.  
  
A guard steps up beside her, a heavyset man with dark skin and bristly gray facial hair. He interjects cautiously but firmly. "Allowing you to put him in his temporary restraints is one thing. We need to be one hundred percent sure that this equipment is secure. One of our people has to do it."  
  
Eddie looks at the guard ferociously. It occurs to Waylon that Eddie has always seemed to exercise some restraint with the doctors, but he unleashes the full force of his hatred on the uniformed man. The security at Blue Garden don't resemble the heavily kitted out, assault rifle carrying men at Mount Massive, but the air of authority about them is the same. Their intention is to intimidate. Clearly, Eddie doesn't respond well to it.  
  
"ONE of you," he says slowly.  
  
The guard nods, unfazed, moving away to issue some quiet instructions to his people. The black band of the monitor is passed to the female guard Waylon remembers from the night they threw him in here. He supposes they picked her in the hopes she would look like less of a threat, but it's clear Eddie doesn't differentiate. A taser is a taser.  
  
When they instruct Eddie to lie on his stomach on the floor, there's a bit more fuss, but they agree to let Waylon stay next to him, and Eddie reluctantly lowers himself to his knees, back to the door. His face is grim and pale, resigned, and he has difficulty meeting Waylon's eyes. Eddie doesn't like being made to look weak, and this submissive act and the fact that he's willing to undergo it because of him makes Waylon's heart break. Waylon looks away from him, not wanting him to feel any more self conscious than he already is, lying on his belly on the cold linoleum floor, and focuses on glaring at the guards and Dr. Lin as they prepare to open the door. He sits down next to Eddie's elbow, and carefully puts his hand on Eddie's where they fitted in tight fists against the small of his back. Eddie flinches, and Waylon nearly pulls away, but then Eddie's hand snaps open and tangles their fingers together in a vice grip. Waylon can feel the fine tremors in his body through the contact, and he grips back just as hard.  
  
For all the fanfare, it goes easy. The door opens, the woman in uniform steps forward and goes down to one knee, putting her hand on his bare ankle and confirming he's not about to move, before swiftly fixing the strap in place. Waylon gives her a hard look the whole time, his eyes on her hands touching Eddie's skin. She looks at him once, pausing in contemplation, as if wondering whether he's about to spring forward. He knows that look. It's the look they give the variants, the fear of the inhuman.  
  
He used to separate himself from them, so distinctly. It's not possible anymore.  
  
The door stays open as Eddie is given permission to stand. Eddie keeps their hands locked while he does, and then they're standing side by side in front of the open door, hand in hand.  
  
"Step out, and walk this way," the guard says, beckoning them into the circle of security officers. "Keep calm. No sudden movements."  
  
"Since it seems clear that you're unaware, we're human beings, not animals," Eddie sneers, moving forward, his grip keeping Waylon tight to his side. As they step through the door, Eddie loops his arm around Waylon's neck and hangs it over his shoulder, hand still held tight, pressing him even closer, like a man might hold his girlfriend, and Waylon’s face warms. Dr. Lin looks nervous at the movement, a few of the guards fidgeting with their tasers.  
  
For a moment, Waylon thinks about how crazy this is. This man killed people in a fit of rage only days ago, and they were still strapping him to a chair then. It seems distant now, and more than that, forgiven. They just let him step free of his prison with only a band on his ankle, connected to a remote in the hand of an unsteady doctor. They're clearly rushing through a process that should take months. Waylon supposes the staff must be extremely confident that the attack was a fluke, the result of bad medication, or some other stimulus that they are certain will not repeat itself.  
  
It occurs to him that they've swapped out one set of controls for another. Not the black band, but Waylon himself, the pair of them linked by invisible bonds. Eddie, with Waylon by his side, is relatively calm, a perfect test animal. Part of Waylon shrivels inside at the guilt.  
  
They're escorted to the end of the hallway, and around a turn. Waylon glances at the other cells as they pass them; he gets a glimpse at new patients as they pass, some familiar from his time in Mount Massive. He recognizes a man who he had caught engaging in necrophilia. Another man who had been violently bashing his head against a door. Still another, who he had seen eviscerating one of Murkoff's doctors, inviting him to join. Near the end, he recognizes the massive bulk of the man who had accidentally saved him from Jeremy Blaire, as he tried to radio for help. Eddie is big, more than a head taller than Waylon, taller and broader than all of the security personnel, but this man is a behemoth. His face is scarred and bandaged, and he hunches in on himself on the bed, staring at the window, face contorted in fear at whatever thoughts are flying through his head.  
  
Held tight against Eddie's body as they walk, Waylon can feel how tense he is. He's not sure if it's because he's struggling with the urge to fight back, or something else. Waylon feels vulnerable out in the open with Eddie in a way that he didn't feel on his own. He had simply accepted his powerlessness in their hands when they had asked him to come here or go there, and so he had done so, playing along and telling himself that there would eventually be a time he wouldn't have to. And there was a freedom in that powerlessness. But now, with something to protect, the fear that something will go wrong eats away at him. He can’t control Eddie, not truly, and therefore, he can’t protect him.  
  
The corridor with the entrance to the men's bathroom is tight, claustrophobic. The guards form a circle corralling them into the small space, Dr. Lin on the other side. She explains that their items are inside, and she'll be waiting outside in case there are problems. Waylon guesses it's because she has a few syringes of tranquilizing drugs in her pockets along with the remotes for their ankle monitors.  
  
Stepping into the cold quiet alone with Eddie is perplexingly exhilarating. It occurs to him that they've never been truly alone together, always either in the cell, or being walked around by doctors. Waylon scans for cameras as they enter, Eddie still gripping him tight, but doesn't see anything suspicious. The bathroom entrance is open with no doors, a short tiled corridor leading into a room of toilet stalls and sinks, and then around a u-shaped corner are the showers, a series of small stalls with curtains for privacy. Waylon had half expected an open room like the prison, so he's pleased. When he looks at Eddie, still gripping him, he's clearly not. His jaw is clenched so tightly it must hurt, the veins popping in his neck.  
  
"What's wrong?" Waylon asks.  
  
Eddie glances darkly at him. "Well, we're both strapped with electroshock anklets, for one."  
  
Waylon shakes his head. He knows he's taking a risk, but it's not going to help either of them if he just bites his tongue and pushes through this. "I mean, with you. What's bothering you?"  
  
The man grimaces, making an unhappy noise. After a moment, he replies, "Nothing. I'm peachy."  
  
"You don't have to do that," Waylon says, a surge of confidence filling him. "With me. You don't always have to be fine. It's okay to be not fine sometimes."  
  
Eddie glares at him. "I know that." Then he pulls away. Waylon falters as he does, feeling bereft. The man moves to the low bench along the wall where someone had left their clothes and toiletries, leaning to collect them, intentionally distracting himself. He won't look at Waylon, even as he steps closer.  
  
"Okay," Waylon says finally. "I just... It's important to me that you know that. That there's..." He struggles for words that won't offend the man, unsure that there are any. "...there's nothing that could ever make me think less of you."  
  
Eddie glances at him sharply, then away again. He pushes a set of the clothes and the bag of soap in Waylon's direction. "I wasn't aware that your opinion of me was something I should be fretting about."  
  
Waylon takes them, folding his arms around them. "No, I mean... You're obviously stressed about something, and I wanted you to know you can talk to me about-"  
  
"It's not your problem!" Eddie growls, startling Waylon back a step. Eddie's eyes widen, then clench closed, jaw ticcing as he heaves a deep breath. "I meant that there are some things that you shouldn't have to worry about."  
  
"We're _partners_ , Eddie. Anything that concerns you concerns me too."  
  
Eddie looks at him from under his pinched eyebrows, gaze dark and contemplative. "Partners," he says, mouth forming around the shape of the word like it's a foreign language.  
  
"Yeah," Waylon says, stepping closer. "It means... we deal with problems together. And we... we take care of each other. It goes both ways."  
  
Eddie shakes his head, large body hunched and coiled. "You should take your shower. I'll stand watch."  
  
"You're deflecting," Waylon says.  
  
Eddie gives him that sharp look again. "And you're being _difficult_."  
  
Waylon sighs deeply. In the end, he knows he can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. And the relationship they've built already is still fragile. He doesn't want Eddie to start getting angry at him all the time. Still, despite his effort, he knows that his frustration touches his voice as he answers, "Okay. If that's what you want."  
  
He moves to the furthest stall by instinct, settling the items on the small shelf just inside the curtain. As he reaches up to pull the curtain closed, he jumps when a hand stops him.  
  
Eddie, moving silently as always. His body is still stiff and expression angry, and Waylon recoils internally. He has a fleeting thought about how a shower stall is actually an ideal place to die. Easy cleanup.  
  
"You want to know what I'm worried about," Eddie hisses through his teeth. "I'm worried about those men outside. Those... those fucking PIGS standing in a circle caging us in while we strip our clothes off."  
  
Waylon doesn't know what to say to that. He can't offer assurances. He doesn't know anything for sure either. The faces of the guards outside flash through his mind. They aren't Murkoff, they don't carry themselves with the same promise of violence that the men in Murkoff did, and some might not be completely terrible people. Maybe some of them really believe Waylon and Eddie and all the rest are genuinely sick and need help. He could believe that they wouldn't do something like that. He wants to.  
  
But in the real world, you can't tell the monsters apart from the real people.  
  
"You know what I saw them do to men like you, at Mount Massive?" Eddie whispers. "Small, _pretty_ men like you?"  
  
Waylon's skin prickles with goosebumps. In the end, he was only held there for two weeks. But he had sensed it on some level, not wanting to spend time on the thought. The way some of the guards and other patients had looked at him. Small and bleached blond and hairless. Hell, one of the doctors had licked his face before making him watch the Engine. He had known.  
  
"They'd take them off, get them alone. And then..." His mouth opens and closes in a gasp, as if the words are choking him.  
  
"I'm not alone," Waylon whispers back. "I'm with you."  
  
The man bares his teeth in an ugly grimace, snarling, "Do you know what men like ME do to men like you?"  
  
"You're not like them. You're not." Waylon puts a hand up and carefully places it on Eddie's trembling forearm, where he's still clenching the curtain in a strained fist.  
  
Eddie drops his chin to his chest, shaking his head, clenching his eyes shut. He just stands like that for long minutes, long enough for Waylon to realize how much time is passing. He realizes if they come out of the bathroom in fifteen minutes, unshowered and Eddie even more wound up than before, it's unlikely they'll release them from the cell. He's still not sure what he can do to help Eddie in this situation, if anything, but he's still sure that standing around doing nothing won't help.  
  
He slowly steps back into the main stall of the shower and hooks his fingers under the hem of his shirt, sweeping it up over his head in a smooth motion, then laying it out over the shelf. Eddie's eyes snap up at the shift of cloth, going immediately to Waylon's bare chest, his still slightly bruised nipples, the fresh pink scar on his belly. Waylon keeps his eyes on him as he kicks off his slippers and drops his pants and underwear, kicking them out as well. Eddie's eyes slip lower, to his soft cock and narrow hips, his well muscled legs and the black band of the monitor on his ankle.  
  
Waylon stands still for a moment under his scrutiny, and then as he reaches for the soap, Eddie suddenly lurches forward. Waylon freezes, heart pounding. But then Eddie is sweeping the curtain closed behind him, and planting his hands on the walls, barring the door.  
  
"You're so _difficult_ ," he hisses, eyes still sweeping up and down Waylon's body.  
  
Waylon has the chilling thought that Eddie might rape him. He doesn’t think he would. But there was the moment, before their first time, when Waylon asked him to stop, without knowing that he would. And Eddie’s moods shift so wildly that something he might not have seemed capable of before might be a possibility now. There's no lube in the toiletry bag, and spit and shampoo won't do a job meant for a medical grade product; Eddie's cock is massive and without copious amounts of lubricant Waylon is sure he'll tear and bleed. He hasn't tried telling Eddie 'no' yet, not for good. He doesn't know if he CAN tell Eddie 'no' and survive it.  
  
But then Eddie cocks his head toward the door, listening. “Be quick, Darling.”  
  
Waylon shudders in relief, a sudden embarrassing guilt washing over him for doubting the man, which he follows up with confusion considering that the man tried to strangle him to death only three days earlier. He grabs the things he needs from the plastic pouch, stepping quickly back into the shower stall and twisting the knobs on. The water shoots out cold first, prickling his skin with cool air, and he glances back at Eddie as it warms. The man is staring at his ass, but his eyes flick up and away guiltily when he realizes he’s caught. Waylon pauses, pondering.  
  
“Come in here with me,” he says.  
  
Eddie looks at him wide-eyed. “Did you hear _anything_ I said?”  
  
“We can be quicker if we both go at once,” he argues.  
  
A cascade of emotions flicker across Eddie’s face in a second, all violence and pain and confusion. Waylon watches him carefully as he steps backward into the now hot spray of water at his back, letting it sluice down his body, and he can’t contain a groan, tilting his head back into it. When he looks back, Eddie is staring at him in open desire, mouth hanging open, red tongue pressing against his sharp lower teeth.  
  
“You’re going to absolutely _murder_ me, Darling.”  
  
Waylon knows he’s moderately attractive. On the small side of average, narrowed shouldered, certainly no Captain America. Lisa had liked his body, and the men he’d slept with hadn’t complained. But he never imagined being _desired_ like this. He holds out his hand, beckoning.  
  
“Come in here with me.”  
  
He watches the man war with himself, and lose. Eddie turns his head to the side, almost guilty, and then haltingly tugs his shirt over his head. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, listening for steps, for movement.  
  
When he drops his hands to his pants he hesitates, fidgeting with them. He turns away from the curtain and puts his back to the wall, as he drops them to the floor along with his underwear. His breathing is heavier.  
  
Waylon takes in the body he’s already become familiar with between the folds of their sheets, broad, rough skinned, pale from too many years locked away. He’s still spattered with yellowing bruises, particularly along his ribcage, but it seems to be improving. Despite his clear interest in Waylon, his cock is soft between his muscular thighs, jutting out from his unkempt pubic hair. His legs down to his ankles are covered with sparse, dark hair.  
  
Eddie’s turned his face in the direction of the entrance again, but then he slowly steps toward him, keeping his back angled toward the wall. Then another, and he’s in the shower with him, the spray hitting his body in small droplets, adding a sheen to his legs and cock that makes Waylon’s mouth water. But he restrains himself, not letting his own body get away from him, his own dick remaining calm and small in the cradle of his thighs.  
  
When Eddie steps close to him, sliding sideways into the stall next to him, Waylon automatically puts his hand on his stomach, and he feels the muscles there twitch. “Is this okay?” he asks.  
  
Eddie nods slowly, expression bewildered again.  
  
“Can I wash you?” Waylon asks, rubbing the soap between his hands to lather it. Eddie nods again with less hesitation.  
  
With permission, Waylon begins to scrub the lather over the man’s body, reminiscent of the first time he washed him, starting with his chest this time. He’s slow but clinical, not lingering, but not rushing either. Eddie seems reluctant to turn away from him, and so he steps in close and wraps his arms around him to later what he can reach of his back. He feels Eddie’s body unwind under his attention, his eyes slipping closed. He puts a hand up on Waylon’s shoulder as he works, curling his fingers into his deltoid as it flexes.  
  
It’s not sexual, but it’s intimate. When Waylon drops his hands to Eddie’s thighs, and then over to his cock, Eddie groans, but he doesn’t get hard. He doesn’t protest either. When Waylon pushes his hand between his legs to quickly soap behind his testicles, that’s when Eddie catches his wrist. “Stop.”  
  
Waylon does, stepping back slightly, his arm still held in Eddie’s grip. It’s not too tight, and he knows he could wriggle away, but he lets Eddie hold him. The man is breathing hard, eyes still pinched tight. He runs a hand up over his scarred face, pressing his fingertips to the wrecked splint on his nose, and his mouth quirks weirdly, as if he can’t control it. And then he opens his mouth and takes in air like a gasp, showing his teeth in a grimace, and then Eddie Gluskin loses it.  
  
He sobs, and then the tears start spilling out, thick on his cheeks. His nose starts to run. He can’t look at Waylon, pressing his hand over his face like he wants to hide it, but knowing he can’t, and it makes him cry harder.  
  
Shocked, Waylon abandons the soap on the shelf in a puddle of foam and pulls his wrist free, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist and holding his body to him. He’s rigid in his grasp, body convulsing in sobs as he tries to hold them in, the gasping sound of them loud even with the smothering pulse of the shower. Waylon feels his arm come up around his shoulders, and then Eddie’s face is pressing down into his hair, and he let’s out a tiny, broken sound.  
  
“It’s okay,” Waylon says, automatically.  
  
“It’s not,” Eddie gasps through his tears. “Nothing’s okay. I’m a mess, Waylon. How can I protect _you_ if I can’t even keep myself together over a fucking _shower_? It’s fucking pathetic.”  
  
Waylon hums against his chest. “It’s not… it’s not pathetic to need care. To be taken care of.” He squeezes tighter. “Sometimes it takes… unimaginable strength, Eddie. To let someone else take care of you. To trust someone else like that.”  
  
Eddie grips him tighter in return. “I don’t know if I can believe that.”  
  
“Then why is it so hard?”  
  
Eddie doesn’t answer, just cries into Waylon’s hair, and Waylon rubs circles up his back and lets the water run over them.  
  
Minutes pass. The last thing Waylon wants is for the guards outside to burst in and fuck this all up, and he’s just about to suggest they just dry off and get dressed when Eddie mumbles, “They came for me in the shower.”  
  
Waylon’s breath stutters.  
  
“At Mount Massive, when they put me in that... that machine. I was..." He stops, breathing hard against Waylon's scalp. "Six of those... authoritarian fucks in their body armor and steel-toed boots came in and..." His arms tighten around Waylon. "They knocked me around. They thought it was funny, because I was slipping around, w-wet and... naked." Waylon hears the click of his throat as he swallows hard. "I thought they were going to... I wouldn't have been able to stop them if they..."  
  
Waylon focuses on breathing, and keeping the tremble from his arms. He remembers the feeling, when the guards had strapped him in and the doctor put his tongue on his face. When they had brought him to the Engine days later and pushed a tube down his throat. Helplessness.  
  
He also remembers when the Groom had strapped him down to a table and slid his hand up his thigh, the saw whizzing between his legs, preparing to chew through the most delicate parts of his body. The memory has less bite to it, given his current situation.  
  
Finally, he remembers the morning he betrayed Murkoff. He remembers standing in the control room of the Engine, and Eddie Gluskin throwing himself against the glass. He'd been wearing nothing but underwear, eyes wild, angry, afraid. It must have been that morning.  
  
"What else do you remember?" Waylon asks shakily.  
  
Eddie shakes his head, sniffling. His crying has died down, maybe because of the confession, or maybe because of Waylon, holding him and rubbing his back. "It's hazy. A lot of things... are still indistinct."  
  
Waylon breathes a small, selfish sigh of relief. If Eddie is recovering memories like this, there's no telling when he could recall Waylon, standing on the other side of the glass. Or that they never knew each other before then, that they're not really partners, or even what Eddie wanted to do to him in the recreation ward. He can only be happy it's not now. It's selfish, but he hopes it's a long time before Eddie remembers all of it clearly, if ever.  
  
"Most of those men are probably dead," Waylon murmurs against Eddie's skin, unsure how else to comfort him.  
  
"Is it wrong of me to be glad?" Eddie replies, rubbing his face back and forth. "No, I know it is, objectively. In therapy, before Mount Massive, they said we only get better if we forgive the ones who hurt us."  
  
Waylon can't answer. He's forgiven Eddie Gluskin, and whether it's a mistake or not, he knows he's better for it. He doesn't have the same nightmares. He doesn't feel that desperate, gnawing emptiness that he's felt since they brought him here. So he can't tell him that the therapist was full of shit.  
  
There's also Eddie Gluskin, who has slowly become something human again, because Waylon started fucking him. Whatever's brought him this far, it's surely not forgiveness.  
  
"I think there are lots of ways to get better," he says.  
  
Eddie's grip on him slackens, and he slowly pulls away, sliding his hands to Waylon's shoulders. Waylon reluctantly lets him go, and leans back to look up into his tear streaked face. The man's eyes and nose are red, and the agony in his expression breaks Waylon's heart. "I think... you must be much smarter than me, Waylon. And infinitely more compassionate."  
  
Waylon opens his mouth to protest, but then Eddie's hand slides up to his ear, and thumbs at the dark roots of his hairline at his forehead, expression shifting to something more thoughtful. Then he sucks in an exaggerated sniff, twisting his nose. "Darling, I've gotten my snot in your hair."  
  
There's a tick, and then Waylon barks out a loud laugh. He slaps his hand over his mouth, but Eddie's smirking, still bleary-eyed and red faced, but Waylon can tell. He's gotten _through_ it. Waylon pulls his hand away, and just smiles at him, and Eddie smiles back, and their grins grow broader the longer they look at each other.  
  
"I love you," Waylon says, because he means it, and he can't not say it. This terrible, vulnerable man.  
  
Eddie quirks his eyebrows and shakes his head, mystified. "I love you too."  
  
Then, almost like he's just remembered where they are, he glances in the direction of the door again, posture stiffening. Waylon braces himself, but when Eddie pulls away, it's just to dig through the toiletry bag and grab the small bottle of shampoo. Almost timidly, he asks, "Can I wash your hair?"  
  
Waylon feels warm all over, and not from the shower. "Yeah."  
  
They switch places, and it's easier after that. Eddie stands under the hot stream while Waylon stands with his back to him, letting the man work the soap into his scalp. It feels so good to be touched this way, and Eddie's hands are strong but gentle. Waylon knows how much they could hurt him, and maybe he's stupid for thinking so, but he's starting to feel so sure that they won't. Not anymore. By the time Eddie steps back and let's Waylon dip his head under the stream, they're both breathing heavily, and clearly fighting their bodies' physical reactions.  
  
Waylon holds out the soap next, and asks Eddie to wash his back. He always felt a bit goofy, being flirty, but Eddie clearly appreciates it, accepting the soap happily and going to work on Waylon's back. He gets halfway down his shoulder blades when his touch begins to stray, as they both realize that Eddie hasn't really touched him like this before.  
  
Eddie lathers along his spine, firm hands sliding up his sides into his armpits, soaping the soft hair there, and then down to the curve of his ass. Then, hesitantly, he pushes his soapy hand down the crack of Waylon's ass, fingers sliding against the hot pucker of his hole, still chafed from yesterday's use.  
  
"We only have a few minutes," Waylon stammers reluctantly.  
  
Eddie makes a sad sound, but he moves on, albeit reluctantly. Eventually he spins him and works his broad hands over Waylon's narrow chest, the slightly soft jut of his pectorals, the flat plane of his stomach. He soaps his cock and pubic hair in the same casual, nearly clinical way that Waylon had done his.  
  
He pauses as he runs his fingers through the hair there. "Darling, do you dye your hair?"  
  
Waylon suppresses a snort, because, obviously. "Yeah."  
  
Eddie rinses the soap from his hands and then puts his fingertips to Waylon's hairline again, where his dark roots are showing, prompting him to cock his eyebrow at the larger man. "I like it on you. I would like you with dark hair as well, but I like the blonde, very much."  
  
"Well," Waylon sighs, plucking the razor and small tin can of shaving foam from the toiletry bag. "The longer we're in here, the darker it's gonna get. I doubt they'll let me fix it as it grows out."  
  
"Hm, then we'll have to break out of here soon then," Eddie whispers, earning a sharp glance from Waylon. The man really is recovering himself.  
  
Eddie fingers at his pubic hair again as Waylon makes short work of his own stubble and tries not to be distracted. "I think I enjoy the contrast, the most."  
  
"Hmm?" Waylon makes a curious noise as he rinses his face under the spray, the foam splattering Eddie's forearm, where he's still touching his hair.  
  
"That bright blonde, it positively shouts, 'Look at me, oh, look at me!'" Eddie says in a playful voice, rough edged with desire. "But then this dark hair down here... It shows _exactly_ what you're doing. What you _are_."  
  
Waylon shivers. He's holding it together on the erection front, but Eddie is running a poor campaign, his cock half hard in his own nest of dark curls. He could blow him, Waylon thinks. He doesn't know if Eddie is ready for that, and he doesn't feel up for it, not with only minutes before one of those guards wanders in and tells them time's up. He's glad that those guards are far from Eddie's mind now though, and he's still considering it, when Eddie leans over him and whispers, "It's just so _slutty_ , Darling."  
  
Then Eddie sinks to his knees. Waylon's breath stalls. Arousal crackles through him like ball lightning as Eddie leans forward and presses a kiss to the softness of Waylon's belly, and then another to his hip.  
  
Eddie's hands slip up his thighs and around the backs of them, gripping tight, as he presses his nose into the soft dark curls of Waylon's pubic hair and his lips brush against Waylon's cock.  
  
Waylon jerks against him, panting. The water is suddenly too hot, the steam in the air stifling. "We can't- There isn't time-"  
  
Eddie groans against him, and Waylon feels the vibration through his groin. Then Eddie leans back. "Yes, of course, you're right, Darling..."  
  
Waylon sighs in frustration, angry at the guards outside and Dr. Lin for giving them only twenty minutes. And he's angry at himself, because he knows he shouldn't let Eddie blow him. The man just broke apart not even ten minutes earlier. He's in no place to give what is possibly his first blowjob. Waylon knows if they didn't have that time limit, he would have let him, and it makes him feel worse.  
  
As Eddie rises, gracefully as a cat, Waylon puts his hands on his body again, cupping his small palms around his sides, delicate of the yellowing bruise on his ribs. He pushes himself to grin despite his own turmoil. "Another time? I'll let you do whatever you want to me."  
  
Eddie grins back. Waylon would almost think Eddie's forgotten his own breakdown entirely, except for the slightly embarrassed and grateful pinch around his eyes. Waylon can't reach his mouth, and so he leans forward and kisses his bicep.  
  
"I seem to recall a promise that there are some things you'd like to do to me as well," Eddie says through his smirk as Waylon twists the faucet knobs and shuts off the water.  
  
Waylon returns the look, more genuinely. He loves this, flirting with him, joking with him. Being friendly.  
  
They towel off side by side in the stall, and the redressing goes quickly before Eddie pulls the curtain aside and steps out. He still doesn't have shoes, and he won't put on the socks they've provided, likely because he doesn't want to slip around on socked feet. His clothes are still too tight on him. Waylon's own set is a bit better, slightly smaller and not hanging off of him in great drapes like the last ones. Unfortunately it makes it difficult for either of them to hide the burgeoning hard-ons they're fighting as they emerge into the toilet area.  
  
Waylon can hear the quiet shuffle and murmurs of the guards outside as Eddie makes use of the sink and mirror, taking the safety razor to the scruff on his face, a tougher job compared to Waylon's. His body is tense again, and when he glances at Waylon, he's unable to smile, but he seems determined to power through it, managing to shave his jaw and chin with minimal nicking. Waylon resolves to make some use of every item in the toiletry bag, focusing on dulling his nails with the small cardboard file, brushing his teeth with the fresh disposable toothbrush, and running the plastic comb through his wet hair in a vain attempt to style it. Once Eddie's finished with the delicate job on his upper lip, he follows suit, though his hair is more obedient, slicking into place on top of his head like it grew in that way.  
  
Crowded up beside each other at the sinks, handing over the toothbrush, the comb, it almost feels like a real married couple, engaged in a menial yet intimate ritual. Waylon studies Eddie's reflect in the mirror, seeing his own in his peripheral. Both of them, still bloody eyed, faces scarred. They _match_.  
  
"Two minutes!" comes Dr. Lin's voice from outside the doorway, echoing down the tiled hall.  
  
Eddie's muscles twist tighter at the sound, his gaze going dark, but Waylon is sure the experience is nearly over. He indulges moments longer, stretching a hand up and stroking it over Eddie's smooth jaw, earning a bemused look. Eddie's undercut is still slightly shaggy, as it'd be unwise to tackle it with a safety razor, but with his jaw bare and hair smoothed, he looks... good. Healthy.  
  
"You look really nice," Waylon says.  
  
Eddie manages to quirk his lips in the faint ghost of a smile, but his eyes light up with it. "I'd say the same to you, but it would be an understatement."  
  
Waylon sniffs and drops his hand, guilty. He's not sure what Eddie sees when he looks at him now, but he knows it can't be what he sees in the mirror now: still on the wrong side of skinny, the rippled scarring descending from the darkening hairline of his unkempt straw blonde hair.  
  
Eddie moves up beside him, and then his large hand is sliding along Waylon's throat, cupping his jaw, and presses their cheeks together, side by side, facing the mirror. Waylon's breath catches in his chest, looking at the two of them, the contrast in size, how frail he looks, how large and powerful Eddie is. Eddie's expression is still dark, but his blue eyes are wide open, almost beseeching.  
  
"Do you really not see how lovely you are?" Eddie asks, rubbing his cleanly filed fingertips over Waylon's cheekbones, and pressing his thumb against his lips. "These sweet, pink lips... The delicate yet masculine structure of your face..." He rubs his hand down Waylon's chest, pressing into the bone of his sternum between his pectorals, feeling Waylon's breath stutters. "This lithe, muscular body, still soft in all the best places."  
  
Waylon is trying to keep eye contact, but he's embarrassed, the flush of it starting to show on his face. Eddie leans in and kisses his hot cheek. "The rush of blood to your face when you're embarrassed... or when you're begging me to _fuck_ you."  
  
Waylon slaps a hand over his face in mortification as his blush spreads to his neck, making a small, desperate sound. Eddie pulls his hand away by the wrist, and holds him close, forcing him to look in the mirror again as he presses his fingertips up to the soft skin at the socket of Waylon's eyes. Waylon stills, watching Eddie's reflection as he looks at them, dark and red and glistening.  
  
"The red is a result of the machine, isn't it?" Eddie asks quietly, moving his fingers from Waylon to touch at the flesh of his own eyelid, the one that's slightly less shot through with broken vessels, a little of the old human white still bright around the blue. "The things that have been done to our bodies without our consent and the scars we carry from them... I am angry, still, but I find I cannot look at these marks with the same loathing, seeing them reflected on you..."  
  
"Sometimes I wonder if I deserved it," Waylon says quietly. It's a thought he hasn't even managed to voice within himself. Whether he earned this, through his contribution to this project.  
  
"No, no..." Eddie answers hastily. "I only mean that I love you, all of you." He touches the scarring on Waylon's cheek, fainter there than his forehead, but still red from healing. Waylon sees himself lick his dry lips reflexively. He catches himself thinking that his lips really are pink. His flushed cheeks are still a pale contrast around the slightly bruised dark circles of his eyes. The lens in his eyes glints as it catches the light. For a moment, he sees a stranger, so wholly different from the man who had lived in a suburban house with a wife and children and worn button downs and worked with computer code. He sees a frightening, dangerous, _beautiful_ stranger.  
  
"I only want you to see you as I see you," Eddie says.  
  
I think I am, Waylon wants to say. He doesn't know what that means for them. Maybe Eddie's drawn Waylon into his delusion, rather than Waylon bringing him closer to reality, like he'd originally thought. The sick and twisted part of him that loved the Groom immediately, slowly eating away at the rest of him, until it's all that's left. They're both deformed, maimed. How could that be beautiful?  
   
He can't look anymore. He turns his face into Eddie's, pressing his forehead against his cheek to shield his eyes. Eddie chuckles. "So shy, Darling."


	29. Chapter 29

Dr. Lin calls them again shortly after, and Waylon welcomes the distraction, trying to clear his head as he tosses the toiletries into a pile, collecting the razor to turn over at the door. Eddie pulls away reluctantly and moves over into the doorway to the narrow hall. From his venomous expression as he peers through, Waylon assumes the guards are hovering close, and he hastens to Eddie's side and lets him wrap his arm around him again before they move in tandem back into the hall. Dr. Lin's expression is something close to relief when they emerge unscathed, clean and smelling of soap and shaving cream. The guards seem like they'll be more at ease once they're in the cell again, ushering them quickly along. The thudding of their heavy boots and the crisp click of the doctor's heels is a stark contrast to the soft sounds of Waylon's slippers and Eddie's bare feet as they emerge into the main hall again. They're hurried down the main corridor and finally, tucked away in their cell again.  
  
Eddie is tightly coiled through the process, but no longer full of manic energy. He's simply alert.  
  
Dr. Lin addresses them once the door is locked and the majority of the guards have gone. Waylon half listens to her as he takes in the state of their room; it had been cleaned, the bedding fresh. The beds have been pushed apart again, likely simply a side effect of having been hastily made up in the twenty minutes they were gone, but he can't help but take it as commentary. He can tell from Eddie's face that he agrees, and the large man's first act after releasing Waylon is to push them together again with a grunt.  
  
The tubes of lubricant, previous lost between the sheets, are laid out on the edge of the sink. Waylon also recognizes a flat package of condoms, and he grimaces, half embarrassed, half disdainful. He'd probably ruined that mattress. He'll ruin as many mattresses as he wants.  
  
"That was a really good job, you two," Dr. Lin is saying. Her face is clearly relieved now, and her tone is strange, almost wistful. Waylon tries to put aside the humiliation of having their sexual activities out on display, studying her. She's studying Eddie, whose posture has uncoiled somewhat back in the security of the room, and is fussing with their bedsheets. She moves closer to the intercom, where Waylon is still standing.  
  
"He's doing really well," she says quietly, and there's an earnestness to it. He wants to her to stop being stupid, to remember what he's capable of, but it feels hypocritical. He feels the same way. So he quirks his mouth in something like a smile, and nods.  
  
She taps out a few more notes on her tablet, then shifts the windows opacity, leaving the pair of them alone again.  
  
On the table along with the playing cards is a small stack of books and magazines. Another reward, he presumes. The books are all softcover and the staples have been removed from the magazines, making them a loose collection of slick pages, and he fumbles them off to the side. He's a bit put off to see the books are from the small section of graphic novels he'd picked at when he'd been in the library, but tries to put it out of his mind. He'd known they were watching him, so it shouldn't be as unsettling as it is.   
  
Eddie is watching him from near the sink when Waylon finally settles in his chair with one of the books. Waylon looks back, unsettled, eyes flicking to the lube and condoms, worrying that Eddie will trigger again. But the man's look is only soft and lustful as he makes his way to the chair opposite him and sits, fingering at the magazine pages with feigned interest.   
  
"Everything good?" Waylon asks.  
  
Eddie snorts. "I find myself feeling a bit... bashful, after my performance just now. I should have kept my composure."  
  
"It's really okay," Waylon insists.   
  
"I don't think it is," Eddie answers, his face pained as he shuffles through the mess of pages, distracting himself.  
  
Waylon pulls his feet up on the chair, tucking his knees to his chest, contemplating. "It's like you said, you know, before, when I was embarrassed to use the bathroom. It's part of being intimate with someone."  
  
"Sharing a bathroom is normal. Whatever _that_ was certainly isn't."  
  
Waylon swallows hard. "We're NOT normal."  
  
Eddie looks up at him, surprised. Before he can respond with something negative, Waylon says, "I think that's okay, though. You don't think that's okay?"  
  
A long silence follows, Eddie staring at him. Waylon can see the gears turning in his head. "I hadn't... thought about it. It was simply always what was expected of me. It's what's expected."  
  
Waylon leans forward, throat tight as he works out how to proceed. He leans forward and sets down his book, pressing his fingertips into the cold surface of the table, feeling the ridges of his fingerprints marking them, in an attempt to ground himself.  
  
"I... Let me put it this way. There are... parts of myself that I don't like. That I've always thought of as _ugly_ ," he starts. He raises a hand as Eddie opens his mouth to protest, quieting him. "But when I'm with you... You make me feel like... all those ugly and dark places are..." He flounders for words.  
  
"Lovely," Eddie answers breathily. " _Loved_."  
  
"...not as ugly or dark as I thought," Waylon finishes, though he lets his mouth ease into a smile at Eddie's suggestions.  
  
Eddie huffs and looks around the room, his blue eyes bright and shining with emotion. "I suppose... You have seen me at my worst, and yet here you are."  
  
Waylon nods. "Here I am."  
  
"You could really love a man who snivels and quakes like that over _nothing_?" Eddie bites out in disgust, averting his eyes.   
  
"I've... I've stood in front of you when you were so sick and angry that you couldn't even _see_ me," Waylon says quietly, and the Groom goes still and silent, jaw clenching. Even quieter, Waylon continues, "I've stood in front of you and thought you were going to kill me."   
  
Eddie flinches, but doesn't reply.  
  
"And I still love you. I loved you through all of it." Only partly a lie.   
  
"That sounds... incredibly foolish, Darling," Eddie says, his voice cracking. When he looks up, his eyes are wet and red rimmed, but his expression is _grateful_. "I'm very lucky that you're so foolish."  
  
"Very lucky," Waylon echoes, keeping his expression warm, despite the chill in his bones.  
  


  
About an hour later, Waylon starts to feel like something is wrong.  
  
He tries to ignore the prickling on his skin, the growing feeling of dread, trying to convince himself that he's working himself up over nothing, that he's imagining things. His thoughts keep wandering to the previous day, to the Walrider and Miles Upshur. To Dennis and the promise of inevitable violence. To Dr. Clark, and what her old partner said before he left. About pushing them until they break. It's been almost peaceful, in here with Eddie, now that the man's trying not to kill him. But the long periods of nothing, of not knowing what's happening below and around them, are starting to crack him.  
  
Waylon watches Eddie reconstruct his armor, slowly becoming that confident, flirtatious man again, though once in awhile he glances at Waylon and smiles, and Waylon can see him in there, that sick, frightened boy. His heart lurches.  
  
Lunch is a bit sloppier than they've grown used to, mashed potatoes and gravy, more of the kind of thing Waylon would expect from a hospital. They must have run out of their stores from before they took in the variants. Despite his nerves, Waylon's appetite is still as healthy as Eddie's, and they pack it in. Eddie talks aimlessly, about what food he likes, what Waylon likes. Waylon is pleasantly surprised that Eddie is already familiar with bibimbap and kimchee. He can't keep himself from saying so.  
  
"I must remember it from the time we've already spent together," Eddie says easily. Waylon coils more tightly at the words, knowing the untruth of them.  
  
They take turns with the toilet after, and despite feeling significantly less self conscious than the first time, Waylon doesn't object when Eddie offers to sing to him. Eddie knows more verses of Sunshine than Waylon's grandmother did, and while it still eases his tension, Waylon can't help but balk at a few of them.   
  
"I think I never realized this song was about a jilted lover," Waylon says as he scrubs his hands.   
  
Eddie smirks from where he's seated on the bed, one bare foot hitched up on the mattress. "Hm, yes, most people are only familiar with the early verses and chorus. They think it's about a death, or that one of them has gone on a journey."  
  
He pauses for a long moment as Waylon dries his hands. Then, almost to himself, he croons one of the verses, " _I'll always love you and make you happy, if you will only say the same. But if you leave me and love another, you'll regret it all someday..._ "  
  
"Dark," Waylon hums with a grimace, flopping back in his chair next to his book. Eddie just smiles at him, clearly unbothered. Waylon determinedly does not think about what that means.  
  
They pass the afternoon quietly. Waylon tries to read, while Eddie lounges over the beds with the magazines. Eddie keeps casting glances over at him, then over at the lube on the sink. The weird feeling doesn't affect Waylon's libido, still charged up from their time in the showers, and he finds himself almost squirming in anticipation of lights out.   
  
The lights don't go out.  
  
The feeling of wrongness increases. They both begin to fidget, and not in anticipation. Waylon finishes the books he was brought, barely absorbing the words and visuals, and goes to stack them on the table, settling there to pick at the deck of cards. Eddie lays down his magazines and stares at the ceiling for a long time. The minutes and hours stretch on.  
  
"I think it's past lights out," he says finally, echoing Waylon's thoughts.  
  
They share a long look. Neither wants to share their thoughts on why that would be. The bad reasons outweigh the good.  
  
They don't have to wait long after that.  
  
Abruptly, the window shifts. Outside is the head guard from earlier, along with six others. They're standing nervously, a slight sheen of sweat on their foreheads. The man in charge communicates with the others, silent through the glass, then leans forward and thumbs on the intercom.  
  
"You two are being relocated. Please collect any items you would like to bring with you. You will not be able to return for them."  
  
Eddie is off the bed in an instant, body straight and rigid, back to the wall beside the bed. Waylon pops up from his chair. "Where to?" he asks, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.  
  
"The room you occupied downstairs," the guard replies, and Waylon goes shaky with relief. Eddie's posture doesn't change as he turns a questioning glance toward him.  
  
"You were already here before they brought you to me?" Eddie growls. "How long?"  
  
Waylon moves to the sink, collecting the rolled up linen drawstring that their toiletries were delivered in, and starts dropping things in, starting with the sex aides. His mind is racing. "Not long. I... I told you before, you couldn't even recognize me at first, they couldn't just toss me in here."  
  
Eddie quiets, no doubt thinking of the part he played in the bruising on Waylon's body. Waylon collects the deck of cards, leaving the books and magazines where they lie, and then moves to stand beside Eddie in the front of the room. Hesitantly, he puts his hand on Eddie's arm, and murmurs quietly. "Please trust me. I know this is difficult-"  
  
Eddie's fist connects with the wall behind him with a thud, the strain clear in his face and neck. Waylon startles back.  
  
It's too much, he realizes. Eddie is still unstable, and removing him from an environment he is familiar with and moderately in control of is a mistake. He remembers again what Dr. Basu told him. That this is the result they want.   
  
Waylon's at a loss. He desperately wants to be out. Downstairs, with the other variants, they can hatch a plan. There's a chance they can get out. Up here, the pair of them are helpless. Up here, if Eddie wakes up one morning and _remembers..._ Waylon doesn't want to imagine what will happen. Downstairs, _outside_... Under different circumstances, maybe the fallout from his lies and manipulations won't be as bad. Maybe Eddie won't ever remember...  
  
He shakes his head, disgusted with himself. Eddie's eyes are pressed shut, working on steadying himself.   
  
The guards on the other side of the glass are twitchy, and the lead gives him a stern look when Waylon turns back toward them. "Dr. Clark assured us that you can control him."  
  
Waylon goes still, feeling the air between him and Eddie chill. He doesn't need to look back or even tilt his peripheral to know Eddie is looking at him. His mind is racing.  
  
Eddie had asked him before whether he was a spy, whether he worked for them. Somewhere in his jumbled brain are the memories of Waylon standing on the other side of the glass before they plugged him full of the latex that scarred his face. The memories of holding his hand as Waylon left him to die in the gym. Maybe even the memory of Waylon taking a man apart to stop him from being beaten. Waylon doesn't doubt that the Groom loves him, in some twisted way, but he's always been sure that the love was a confusion of those intense emotions.   
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he must doubt Waylon. It wouldn't come up, again and again, if he truly trusted him. Hearing the guard say something like that... Waylon could imagine it cutting to the deepest part of that fear, releasing it, bringing it all up in a swell. He can see it clearly, the future where that thoughtless phrase niggles down into Eddie's brain and squirms there, spreading its tendrils, until Eddie turns on him. Until Waylon loses him.  
  
Waylon realizes he's angry. It comes up from inside of him like his own Pandora's box, a secret deep well, a vein of oil in the crust of the earth. Murkoff. Jeremy Blaire. Dr. Clark. Lisa and his boys. Angry, beyond his survival instinct, beyond the desire to escape, beyond the urge to make Murkoff pay.  
  
He had thought, before, that he knew what it felt like to want Murkoff to burn. It doesn't compare to this.  
  
Only a moment passes, the thoughts flashing through him, and then Waylon opens his mouth. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  
  
The guard looks legitimately stunned, shifting on his feet before leaning back toward the intercom. Waylon doesn't let him speak, pouring all his frustration and rage into his words. "My husband is perfectly capable of controlling himself! He's not a dog on a leash! You can't speak about _people_ that way!"  
  
Playing the outraged wife, he thinks fleetingly, then almost instantly realizes that he's not. It's HIM speaking, not trying to follow a script. HE wants to say these things. It's not just that the guard could blow Waylon's cover. It's that he's threatened all of their progress together, the two of them. Eddie remembering will be the END of the two of them.  
  
Waylon swivels toward Eddie, letting his anger swell and pour out of him, twisting his expression, tightening the sinews of his body until his hands shake. Projecting the partner, the _husband_ , the man who loves him. Eddie's demeanor is closed off, but calmer, watching Waylon with a cautious expression. "Eddie," Waylon murmurs. "We can stay right here, if that's what you want. YOU are in control here, not me, not them." He steps close, into Eddie's space. Close enough that Eddie could reach up and snap his neck with ease, if that's what he chose, and Waylon is certain from the flicker in his eyes that Eddie sees that. "They can't make you do anything."  
  
"If only that were true, Darling," Eddie growls, eyes darting to the guards outside the window, before settling on Waylon again, slightly softer. Then he closes his eyes, and breathes in deep. He pushes away from the wall, body bumping Waylon's. His arm snakes out to wrap around him as Waylon takes a hesitant step back. When Eddie opens his eyes again, his expression is determined, jaw tight and square, mouth set in a grim line.  
  
"We'll go," he says, voice soft and rough. "But if they try anything..." His eyes cut to the guards, the dark ferocity in them filling Waylon's body with heat. "... I'll fucking rip every last one of them apart."  
  
When the Groom's eyes turn back to him, Waylon smiles softly. It blooms out of him, surprising but welcome, at the tight way Eddie holds him, at the promise of vengeance in his words. Eddie almost seems to shudder at the expression, lips parting in a soft gasp.   
  
Waylon leans close, and whispers, "I'd help you do it." Not playing a part. He means it. He had nothing left when they brought him here. He'll fight to the death for this one last thing. The only good thing he has.  
  
Eddie's brow furrows for a second and his head tilts, as if in recognition. Waylon doesn't have time to decipher what that means before Eddie wraps his big arms around him, hunching his body and pressing his mouth to Waylon's ear. "You've been hiding something, haven't you."  
  
Cold floods him. A panicked whisper of _He knows_ echoes through the chambers of his brain. _He knows, he knows, he knows what a liar you are._ Waylon gasps, and struggles for words that don't come. He feels the vice grip of Eddie's arms around him, security and violence all at once.  
  
Then Eddie's lips move against his cheekbone. A kiss.  
  
"I want to see you outside of this place," Eddie whispers against the shell of his ear. "I want to know who you really are, beyond this. See my husband, whom I've loved and forgotten, without THEM watching."  
  
Waylon quivers in relief, body sagging in Eddie's arms. Eddie believes him. He still believes him.  
  
"We'll get out," Waylon murmurs into Eddie's chest. "I promise. I promise."

  
  
When Waylon pulls away from Eddie, his face is flushed red, and there are tears dripping from his lashes. He doesn't remember crying. He's lost track of time. It can't have been longer than a few moments, because the head guard is still standing outside, looking perplexed and frustrated.  
  
"We're ready," Eddie says, gripping Waylon's shoulder tightly. Waylon rubs at his hot face with a palm, wiping away his tears. A glance at the larger man reveals he's mostly stabilized, the muscles of his neck still tight, but his posture is straight and tall again.  
  
The lead guard looks skeptical, but his orders from higher up must be firm, because he steps toward the intercom. "Good. Two things before we proceed: Dr. Clark is observing the transfer via the security network, so she will be aware of any misbehavior. Also, all of our guards now currently carry triggers for the shock function in your ankle monitors. Any strange behavior and we will lay you out. Understood?"  
  
Waylon tenses a bit at the warning, thinking of that woman watching them through the cameras. He had wondered why there was no doctor here to supervise; she must have picked up on Eddie's contempt for her and chosen to keep a locked door or two between them. As for the news that any of the guards could trigger the shock, he knows he should have expected it. It wouldn't be an effective collar if Dr. Clark and Dr. Lin were the only ones allowed to handle the leash. Eddie shifts from foot to foot beside him, his thoughts about this information impossible to read.  
  
"Yes," Eddie answers after a long pause. Waylon follows with a nod, collecting his bag of possessions and holding it tight to one side, Eddie's elbow tight to the other.  
  
The guards outside talk privately for a tense minute. Then the lead moves to the door, and unlocks it. Eddie slips his arm around Waylon, same as last time, and together, they walk from the room for the last time.   
  
Eddie gives it a last glance over his shoulder. Waylon doesn't. For all the memories it holds for the two of them, it's still a cell, and he can't bring himself to feel fond.   
  
The guards encircle them, keeping at least an arms length away from either of them as they escort them down the hall. They're more jittery than Waylon has ever seen them, understandably so. Waylon peeks at the other cells, but they're all dark, the occupants asleep for the night. The halls are empty, though whether it's due to the late hour or this event, Waylon can't be sure. Eddie is tense against him, the crook of his elbow around Waylon's neck like a trap, pressed against his jaw. Waylon spreads a hand, fingers wide, on the middle of Eddie's back. He's not certain it helps.  
  
At the elevator, a guard holds it and directs them to stand facing the back wall. Eddie huffs, and Waylon imagines he can see the pieces clicking in his brain, how he would attack, how many he thinks he could take down before they took HIM down. Then his forearm flexes against Waylon's cheek, pulling him in ever so slightly, as if Eddie is reminding himself of his presence, and he moves them both forward into the elevator. He tucks Waylon between himself and the wall and braces his arms on either side. He hears a grumble from the guards as they consider protesting, but decide against it, piling into the elevator behind them. Waylon peeks over Eddie's thick forearm and catches sight of their tasers. The lead's hand is on his gun.  
  
Waylon wonders if that gun were to leave the holster, that whatever it was that decapitated the guard would finally show itself again. He wonders if it lives in him, like Miles' Walrider.  
  
They drop two floors, and the doors open. The guards pile out and then order them out. Eddie is breathing heavily, long drags through his nose, out through his mouth. The guards don't seem to notice.  
  
When they turn into the familiar hall, Waylon feels a wave of relief. Some part of him had imagined a basement room, a secret courtyard, where these men took them and put bullets in their brains. That the transfer was all a lie, that Dr. Clark's plan wasn't really as crazy as it seemed, lulling them into compliance with empty promises.   
  
But they're here. They're here.  
  
He can hear the shifting of bodies in the rooms, nervous at the sound of so many heavy footsteps outside. Tomorrow morning will be strange, if they are really given free run of this floor. Waylon thinks of Dennis, warning him about the Groom's presence, and for the first time thinks worriedly about whether the men will trust him if he reappears beside Eddie Gluskin.  
  
The guard at the front of the group clicks open the lock on the door as he reaches it, swinging it open. The lead speaks up. "Your room was outfitted for two occupants earlier this evening. You should know that the items you were hiding in your pillowcase were found."   
  
Waylon almost trips over his own feet; he'd completely forgotten about the syringes and scissors he'd squirreled away the day he was taken upstairs.   
  
The guard continues, "Dr. Lin will discuss disciplinary action with you tomorrow. 9am is medication handout. You will each have separate sessions with Dr. Lin at 1 and 2pm. If you miss any of your appointments then there will be further discipline. If _either_ of you cause any trouble for any of the staff or other patients," Waylon can hear him talking pointedly at Eddie. "You will _both_ be disciplined. Understood?"  
  
"Perfectly," Eddie growls through his teeth as they step through the door into Waylon's small familiar room. Before they can turn and face the guards behind them, the heavy door has already closed, the lock clicking into place.  
  



	30. Chapter 30

They're alone. Alone.   
  
Waylon's arms and legs feel like jelly. The linen bag slips from his fingers as he presses his forehead against Eddie's chest, feeling the quick pulse of his heart and the deep breathes filling his lungs. Eddie's arm stays tight around him. Waylon pushes his hands up Eddie's sides, kneading at the rigid muscles there. "It's over."  
  
"How secure is this room?" Eddie mutters, keeping his voice low as he surveys the small space. It's half the size of their cell upstairs, which had been plenty of room for Waylon when he'd been kept here, but feels so small with Eddie standing in it, his head level with the top of the doorframe. He could probably stretch his arms out and touch the opposite walls.  
  
"As secure as any other in here," Waylon answers, pulling away. The arm around him resists, then gives reluctantly. Waylon keeps his hands on Eddie's body, trying to ground him. "I didn't have any trouble. You can have a look around."  
  
Most of his amenities are still present, the small battery clock showing the time as just past 1am. New clothes are stacked on the dresser, separated into two piles. The narrow single bed has been replace with a slightly wider one, not quite as large as what they'd constructed upstairs, but enough room to keep them from sleeping on top of each other. Waylon feels a twinge in his groin at the thought, followed immediately by a twinge of guilt.   
  
Waylon carefully steps further into the room, leading Eddie back towards the bathroom so that he can confirm for himself that it's a closed room with no secret back doors, but then Eddie turns toward the big dark window, and stops.  
  
Waylon pauses, then steps away, flicking the lights off. Eddie tracks him as he moves away, but then turns back to the window as the lights drop, and their night vision kicks in. Waylon hears Eddie's quick intake of breath.  
  
Outside, snow is falling in flurries, big white flakes obscuring everything past the vague dark tree line down below. In the quiet, they can hear the whisper soft patter of the flakes on the window pane. Eddie steps closer, putting a hand on the cold glass. His body heat starts to fog the window, and he rubs his finger tips through it. The reflected light from the snow softens his features as Waylon watches him. The scars and bruises are almost invisible, the dark swathes of his eyebrows and bright blues of his eyes stark under the low, cold light.   
  
"It's been so long since I've seen snow," Eddie murmurs, eyes still on the window.  
  
Waylon steps close. "I can show you the courtyard tomorrow, if they'll still let us go out there."  
  
Finally, Eddie turns to him. His eyes are shining, but not because of the tapetum lucidum. "I couldn't have done this without you, Darling."  
  
Confused, Waylon shakes his head. "Done what?"  
  
"I'd still be locked up in my own head, I know it. Only a week ago I had no grasp on reality. But every moment I'm with you, everything becomes more and more clear." He runs his fingers down the steamy window, long slashes of dark in the mist. Waylon quivers.   
  
When Eddie says nothing more, Waylon forces himself to pull away, moving back toward the bathroom and sliding the door open. He feels the heat of Eddie's body before he turns, and finds him looming behind him, snow outside instantly forgotten as he peers over Waylon's head into the small dark room.   
  
Waylon leaves the light off, leading the man into the black, showing him the cabinet behind the mirror and the space beneath the sink. As Eddie presses his hands to the walls, presumably searching for seams, Waylon runs his eyes over the cracks and corners, looking for a dark beady lens or a nook where a bug might be fitted. Neither finds anything, and the search moves to the main room, Eddie pulling the bed and dresser away from the walls, as Waylon strips the sheets and pulls and upturns all of the drawers. They do so silently, coordinated, Eddie confirming at last that there is only one way in and out of the room (or three, if you count the window, and the tiny 8 inch vent in the bathroom ceiling) and Waylon confirming that they're not bugged or under surveillance (which takes some doing, as it requires them to pull the vent cover from the bathroom ceiling). By the end, they trade a look, and after a long pause, Eddie nods, and they both move to put the room back in order.  
  
It's nearly 2am by the time they're done, and Waylon is exhausted. He considers the inviting width of the bed, looking to Eddie to see if he's following the same line of thought. He's not. He's standing rigid near the door.  
  
"You should get some sleep, Darling. I'll keep watch for awhile."  
  
Waylon takes him in, body still tight, shifting from foot to foot. He considers his own state; despite his weariness, he's still keyed up emotionally, still angry after his outburst upstairs. He decides to be bold. "I have a better idea."  
  
Eddie gives him a look, prepared to argue but not sure what Waylon's angle is yet. Waylon steps forward and takes his hand, and with a tug, pulls him toward the bathroom. Eddie's posture is reluctant, but his expression is curious, until Waylon pushes the bathroom door closed behind them and pulls his shirt over his head. The lights are still off, so Waylon sees the bright lenses of Eddie's eyes flicker down his bare chest, pupils wide.  
  
"Will you let me do something?" Waylon asks, dropping his pants, standing naked by the shower door. "I wanted to, in the shower this morning. I think it would help."  
  
"This is almost certainly a bad idea," Eddie answers, but he's stepping forward nonetheless, skimming fingertips down the skin of Waylon's ribs, making him shiver.  
  
"If anyone comes in, we'd hear the door. It's loud," he says. He knows there's no way to truly reassure Eddie. The fear of a new space is partially irrational, partly animal. The only thing that will truly do any good is time. But maybe a few nudges wouldn't hurt.  
  
Eddie's cock is already half hard when Waylon tugs down the waistband of his pants, brushing his knuckles against those thick thighs that make his mouth water. Eddie pulls his own shirt up, eyes darting toward the closed bathroom door, ears perked. Waylon twists the knob on the shower, setting it lukewarm so they don't overheat, and he swears he can _feel_ Eddie's eyes crawling up his bare ass as he bends over.  
  
Waylon maneuvers Eddie against the back wall of the shower, the larger man going easily despite his verbal objections. His dick is equally compliant, dark pink and rigid, and Waylon feels the hot surge of his libido as he looks down Eddie's wet, muscled body. They had both restrained themselves that morning, knowing that nothing could happen under those circumstances, but there's no reason for restraint here.  
  
Waylon soaps and shampoos them both first, washing away the grime of the day, hoping some of the stress and tension goes with it. Eddie's so tall that his head is level with the shower head, and he has to duck to wet and rinse his hair. Waylon watches him rub the water from his eyes after, waiting until those eyes are open again, and fixed on him.  
  
When Waylon goes to his knees in front of him, Eddie makes a strangled sound, like he could come right there.  
  
"Darling, you don't have to-" he's saying quickly, but Waylon can feel the tremor of arousal in his body from where his hand is cupping Eddie's hip bone, thumb pressed into the divot between his pelvis and thigh, feeling the quickening pulse there.   
  
"I want to," Waylon answers, leaning forward to press an open mouthed kiss to Eddie's other hipbone. Eddie makes a sound like he can't breathe, and when Waylon looks up, Eddie has pressed a hand over his own mouth, eyes still locked on him, pupils so wide that Waylon wouldn't even be able to make out the blue, if that spectrum of color were still visible to him the dark. "But we don't have to if you're uncomfortable."  
  
"It..." Eddie rubs his hand over his face and down his chin, pressing his fingers to his lips. Muffled, he murmurs, "It's just so _vulgar_ , Darling."  
  
Waylon's belly is churning with arousal, his head hot. He leans back, letting the warm spray of the shower splash against his face, trickling down his neck and chest. He closes his eyes against the onslaught, but he knows Eddie is watching him, seeing the pink of his lips open against his teeth, the droplets catching in his eyelashes. The rapid swell of his cock between his lean thighs. "Vulgar," he echoes. "You kissed me there this morning. Was that _vulgar_?"  
  
When he opens his eyes, Eddie has braced his arms against the sides of the shower, the flex of his biceps spreading the muscles of his chest, dotted with droplets, his breathe coming in heaving rasps. His expression is dark and flushed, disapproving and helplessly turned on. His thighs have widened almost imperceptibly.   
  
Waylon wants, so badly. The vision of himself getting his skull cracked against a door frame or tiled floor has grown fainter and fainter since the first night they had sex, and in this moment, he's sure of something he's only let himself hope for. Eddie isn't going to kill him. Eddie's not even going to hurt him anymore, not while he's in this state, well medicated and approaching sanity. In the wake of the realization, he grows even braver. The guilt he's been carrying all day, and the reason for it, doesn't penetrate the dark around them.  
  
An idea occurs to him. He figures it has about a 50/50 chance of success. Eddie's not attracted to women- not sexually, anyway- but his preference for feminine insults during sex is suspicious. Not that there are all that many masculine options to choose from, since men aren't generally shamed for enjoying sex. Waylon was never really big on feminization, the insults appealing more to him because of the degradation, but knowing now that his cock is safe and appreciated...    
  
The flush on his face spreads to his chest, darkening his nipples, as he arches his back and says in a shaky voice, "Because proper girls don't suck cock, right?"  
  
Eddie makes a sound like he's been punched in the gut, and his cock jumps. He bares his teeth in a snarl, but Waylon can tell there's no aggression there. "You're not a girl."  
  
"It's just a game," Waylon answers quickly, rocking closer again, breath quickening. "I'll stop if you don't like it." The difference in their heights is apparent, Waylon's head barely level with Eddie's pelvis, and he has to tip his chin up to avoid Eddie's cock as he comes close. He presses a thumb to the base of Eddie's dick, angling it down, so the fat, wet head is pressing gently against his sternum. Then he pulls his biceps close to his body, flexing his slight pectorals and pillowing the modest layer of fat around his nipples, giving the slightest impression of cleavage, cupping the head of Eddie's cock. He's not sure if Eddie will pick it up, how he'll react if he does. He doesn't expect the grunt, or the surge of precome that spurts against his chest.  
  
"You like it," Eddie groans, his head falling back against the tile, eyelids heavy.   
  
"Sometimes," Waylon answers, letting the head slip up his clavicle and press against his throat as he swallows. "Only during sex." More precome oozes down his neck. Waylon's suspects it won't take much to get him off, when he finally puts his mouth on him.   
  
Eddie is pulling in air through his teeth. "Why did I marry such a deviant?"  
  
Waylon chills, stomach souring. He forces himself to smile and answer with a confidence he doesn't feel. "Because you _love_ it, honey."  
  
His nerves fade as Eddie groans again and thrusts his hips involuntarily in response, the head of his cock slipping from Waylon's adam's apple to rub under his jawline. Waylon presses a kiss to Eddie's slightly soft belly, closing his eyes, settling himself.   
  
A hand touches his head, fingers tangling in his hair. His eyes open, and this time, Eddie's thighs have spread unmistakably further apart, feet planted wide. Waylon can see the soft, light furred darkness of his inner thighs under the loose skin of his ball sac. Eddie doesn't press him, just rests his hand there, but it's clear what he wants.  
  
Waylon swallows hard, then holds eye contact with Eddie deliberately as he slips his hand flat into the gap between his thighs, skimming up the damp, hot space to cup his testes. Two fingers press up, delicately, and touch his perineum. Eddie tenses, expression confused.  
  
"Can I touch you here?" Waylon asks, giving a soft rub to the skin at the base of Eddie's balls, pressing just slightly further back, hopefully enough to stimulate his prostate. It might be too much, he knows, given Eddie's past, but Waylon's goal is to blank him, to make him come so hard that his knees give out and he forgets all about the fact that he's in a new room, and he knows from experience that nothing wipes a man's mind clean like the first time he discovers how to work over his prostate.   
  
Eddie pants and doesn't answer, still perplexed, but his erection doesn't flag. A good sign. Waylon keeps his hand where it is, and leans back, taking the head into his mouth at the same moment he rubs more firmly against the perineum.  
  
A movement in the corner of his eye prompts him to look up, the slick, leaking head resting on his flat tongue, and he sees that Eddie has clamped his other hand back over his own mouth, fingers tight against his flesh, a series of small muffled noises escaping him. His other hand is trembling where the fingers rest against Waylon's scalp. Certainly aroused. But it's hard to get a read on him beyond that. He knows how easy it is to make bad decisions when you're hard and ready. He doesn't want Eddie to have any more regrets.  
  
Waylon pulls his hand from between Eddie's legs and lets the cock slip from his mouth. Eddie makes a surprised and frustrated noise, hand dropping from his mouth.  
  
"I need you tell me explicitly whether it's okay," Waylon says. He presses both hands to Eddie's stomach, kneading the hard muscles. "Or I can keep both hands right here, if you like."  
  
"Do you always tease this much?" Eddie growls. "You really are like a woman, always wanting to talk."  
  
Waylon frowns. "Communication is important-"  
  
"Or you could just do it, rather than making me _ask_ for it," Eddie bites back, face flushed red in the dark.  
  
Waylon looks forward at Eddie's hard dick, still eager, despite his bad mood. His fingers are still in his hair. Waylon considers. Eddie certainly didn't stop to check with him every time he initiated sex. Waylon's deliberately avoided thinking much about what could've happened if he'd tried to stop it completely, at least those first couple times, but he's aware that he never consented, simply accommodated, allowed it to happen, made it easy. He had _wanted_ to. Pressing forward, not asking, wouldn't be unlike what's already happened between them. But it feels wrong, considering Eddie's past.  
  
He also considers that Eddie still feels embarrassed about having sex with him, on some level. Asking for something like that would be humiliating for him.   
  
Waylon decides he'll just have to do a damn good job.  
  
Waylon leans forward and opens his mouth against the side of Eddie's dick, sucking at the tightened foreskin. Eddie makes a sound, and Waylon can tell he's covered his mouth again. His thighs shiver as Waylon drags his wet hands down them, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of his inner thighs. Waylon works his way down the thick length of the shaft, until his cheek presses into Eddie's pubic hair. He inhales the masculine scent of him there, dulled by the clean soap. His belly trembles, and the veins in his cock pulse against Waylon's cheek.  
  
Waylon pulls back and takes the head in his mouth again, fully this time, his jaw already aching from how wide he has to open to accommodate it. He's sure he can't take all of it, not from this angle, but he takes what he can, until the round head is pressed to the back of his throat. The unique taste of precome spreads through his mouth, on the verge of unpleasant, making Waylon's mouth water. He tucks his lips under his teeth and _sucks_ , pressing his fingers up behind Eddie's balls again at the same moment.  
  
The sound Eddie makes is like a sob. Waylon can't see his face unless he were to roll his head back to an uncomfortable angle, so he focuses everything on reading his body, his posture, the firmness of his cock. Eddie is a mess over him, grunting and groaning into his hand as Waylon takes long, powerful pulls on his dick, rolling the muscle of his tongue against the glans, eagerly swallowing the clear fluid that's spilling out of him. Nothing about him suggests he should stop.   
  
Waylon wonders if it's the first blowjob Eddie has received. Almost definitely the first from a man, at least.  
  
When Eddie's fingers tighten in his hair, it shoots from Waylon's scalp straight down to his cock, and he groans around the dick in his mouth. Eddie answers in kind, feeling the vibration of Waylon's voice in his dick. His hand drops from his mouth to the back of Waylon's neck. Waylon shudders.  
  
He pulls back. Eddie lets him. Waylon puckers his lips against the tip of his cock, kissing it like he would his mouth, slippery tongue tracing the shape of the glans. "Fuck my face," Waylon hears himself saying, voice ragged, almost begging.  
  
"Jesus," Eddie answers, like it's been punched out of him. Waylon glances up at him, and he's a disaster, red and sweating, barely holding himself up, nearly beyond words.  
  
"Not all the way in," Waylon continues in a haze, before he slides his mouth back down the length of him, rolling his balls in his hand and stroking harder along the crease of his perineum.  
  
Eddie doesn't react for a long moment, but then his fingers tighten even further in Waylon's hair, and his grip on his neck becomes firm. Inescapable.   
  
Eddie pulls his hips back, shakily, and the first press into Waylon's mouth is slow and uncertain. Waylon lets his jaw fall wide, teeth far apart, but keep his lips tight and wet, swallowing when the head reaches his throat so that Eddie can feel it convulse. The older man shudders. He pumps his hips slowly, keeping a gentle pace despite the tight, strong hold he has on Waylon's head. Waylon keeps his hand between his legs, rolling his balls and stroking his perineum in time with his thrusts, feeling the tight grip of his thighs around the bones of his hand on each push in. He lets saliva leak down his chin, rinsed away by the shower water as it drips to his chest.   
  
"That's it," Eddie says suddenly in a cracked voice, breaking the quiet. He sounds like a wreck. "Look how much of me you can swallow. S-such a... such a _good girl_."  
  
Waylon almost wails around the cock in his mouth, instantly desperate to sink his own dick into something hot and tight, hips thrusting forward. Eddie notices, gasping, and suddenly pushes forward roughly, so firmly and quickly that he must feels the hard edge of Waylon's teeth. He does it once, twice, and on the third, Waylon can't stop himself, and pushes himself forward. The heavy head of Eddie's cock pops down the back of his throat with bruising force, and Waylon can no longer breath as he sucks him straight down the root. His fingers slip along the crack of Eddie's ass from the force of his thrusts, just a little too far, and press against the tight pucker of his hole.  
  
Eddie comes down his throat with a pained and wild sound, quickly smothered by his own hand again as he pulls it from Waylon's neck. His other hand is still fisted in Waylon's hair as he keeps his nose pressed to Eddie's pubic hair, gulping and trying not to choke, hearing the click of his throat as he pulls Eddie's ejaculate from his cock and down into his belly.  
  
Eddie pushes him off almost roughly a moment later, before he's even started to go soft, semen still dribbling from his dick. Waylon takes a deep breath, trying not to cough, eyes watering. He pulls his hand from between Eddie's trembling thighs, trying not to think of the flutter of his asshole against his fingertip as he came.  
  
"God, why did you do that?! Are you hurt?!" Eddie splutters, dropping his hand to Waylon's cheek and tilting his face up.  
  
Waylon grunts, just to make sure he can still vocalizes, before he answers in a gravelly, somewhat pained voice, "I wanted to show you how good I could be for you."  
  
Eddie bends, and suddenly he's being pulled up to his feet. Waylon hasn't come yet, his hard cock bouncing comically between them as Eddie lifts him. Eddie has to catch himself as his shaky legs almost give out from lifting Waylon's weight, pressing his back against the wall. He touches a thumb to Waylon's throat. "Does it hurt?"  
  
Waylon shakes his head, stepping forward to attempt to rub out his orgasm against Eddie's wet, trembling body, but then he's being pushed back again, out of the shower. Flustered, he stands in the cold, damp air, watching as Eddie twists off the knobs, then flicks on the light switch.  
  
The light is blinding, almost physically painful. Before he can fully adjust, his head is being tilted back and mouth pressed open. He feels like a child at a doctor's office, being told to say 'Ahh.' Eddie seems satisfied by what he sees (the stretch of his throat hurt but Waylon knows it didn't do any real damage), letting it close again and cupping Waylon's cheek with a deep, unsettled sigh.  
  
When he finally blinks his eyes open, Eddie is staring at him with a serious expression, water still dripping down his skin. "You scared the hell out of me, Waylon."  
  
Waylon coughs wetly, feeling sheepish. He had thought Eddie would find it hot, and he clearly had, but Waylon didn't expect this kind of concern. "Sorry," he says, voice requiring a bit more effort as he starts to feel the effects of it. "I've done it before, just usually a little slower..." And usually with his head upside down off the side of a mattress to straighten the line of his throat, but he leaves that part out.  
  
Eddie strokes his cheeks and sighs again, dark expression slowly melting. "Truly a deviant."  
  
Waylon grins, then shivers in the cold air, prompting Eddie to scramble for the towels. In the cool fluorescent light, his body looks paler, his scars and muscles laid out sharp and detailed, and the tremor in his legs is pronounced, the effects of a workout followed by an intense orgasm. Waylon's confident he'll wrangle him into bed after this. The scare he just put Eddie through probably means he's not getting off tonight, though. He can't bring himself to regret it.  
  
Eddie finishes toweling them off and pushes him out into the room, naked, flipping off the bathroom light. Bathed in the soft reflected light of the snow through the window, Eddie gathers Waylon up and slips them both under the blankets. Waylon makes a pleased sound, wriggling to feel their still damp skin where it sticks together. Then Eddie ducks his head under the covers, and before Waylon realizes what's happening, he has a hot mouth on his cock.  
  
"Ah, fuck! Fuck!" he half cries, half whispers in his strangled voice as Eddie tucks his arms under his thighs and sucks him deeper into his mouth. It's a bad blow job, comparatively; the pressure is all wrong, there's no rhythm to it, and Eddie doesn't know how to cover his teeth. But Waylon's already most of the way there from earlier, and it's _Eddie Gluskin_ with his head between his thighs, licking at his glans experimentally, learning how he tastes. He's already about to come when Eddie emulates his move from earlier, slipping his hand beneath his dick to cup his balls and finger his perineum.  
  
Waylon tries to voice a warning but his voice cracks and fails, and then he comes, orgasm unspooling through his lower body, sucking the blood from his head and making him dizzy. He forces himself to stay present, pushing the blankets up for a visual of Eddie between his legs, wiping at the ejaculate Waylon had splashed across his cheek.  
  
"A little warning next time, Darling," he says, but there's no malice in it. His voice is thin, utterly exhausted. Good, Waylon thinks.  
  
Waylon smiles and shrugs apologetically. His voice is still creaky when he answers, "It surprised me."  
  
Eddie pulls himself up and flops next to him, on the outside edge of the bed. He looks extremely pleased with himself. Waylon is thankful to note that whatever discomfort he'd felt in the shower earlier seems to have dissipated. "That little trick of yours is very effective."  
  
"Trick?"  
  
Eddie presses his hand between Waylon's legs, his fingers finding his perineum. Waylon grunts at the overstimulation, wiggling his hips to dislodge him. Eddie grins sadistically, knowing exactly what he's doing. "This spot right here."  
  
Waylon manages to dislodge his hand, catching it in his in own and squeezing it to his belly. All Waylon wants to do is drift away into sleep, but he forces himself to alertness. "That's prostate stimulation."  
  
Eddie is quiet for a long moment, thinking. "I thought that was the other thing you showed me. That spot inside of your..." He trails off, but Waylon gets what he means.  
  
"Same gland, different angle," Waylon answers, fighting a yawn.  
  
Eddie's eyebrows pinch together. "It must be difficult for you to have to teach me all of these things. Having a husband who doesn't even know how to please you..."  
  
Waylon feels that guilty feeling return, and tries to swallow it down. It sticks in his bruised throat. He tries to smile. "You please me plenty."  
  
Eddie pulls his hand from Waylon's, and strokes it up his belly, over his chest, pressing briefly over his heart. His expression is peaceful, but contemplative. "I know you're hiding something from me."  
  
Waylon's smile falters. He can't stop the ragged intake of breath. Eddie's eyes flit to his, feeling the gasp where his hand is pressed to his chest. The expression on his face is dark and intense.  
  
"It's okay," he says, in a way that implies it's not, really. "I know we have to watch what we say here. I know there are probably hundreds of things you wish you could tell me..."  
  
His hand trails up to Waylon's throat, feeling it pulse as Waylon swallows again. Whether he's thinking about the damage his cock inflicted earlier, or about wringing it, is unclear. Waylon is trying to rein himself in, but he knows that his fear must show on his face, in the way his eyes tear up and lips quiver.   
  
Eddie's voice is almost a whisper when he leans in close and speaks. "Do the doctors know why I killed those women?"  
  
Waylon shakes his head, almost on instinct. "I don't know." It's true, mostly. The files he had skimmed didn't delve into it. Dr. Lin and Dr. Clark only seem to have a loose grasp on it. He had practically forgotten all about it, actually, as focused as he was on Eddie as a victim. He had rolled in the murders of the women with Eddie's breakdown in Mount Massive, as if they were all part of the same psychosis, but it had been years, possibly decades since then. Eddie's mental illness was present long, long before Mount Massive.  
  
Eddie's expression is peaceful despite the darkness in his gaze. He runs a fingertip lightly along Waylon's collarbone. "But YOU know why I killed them." It's not a question.  
  
Internally, Waylon panics. In the fiction of their marriage, he knows that Eddie's a murderer; Eddie had assumed he knew, reasonably, considering that he's locked up and his crimes are public. In this fiction, did Waylon know _while_ they were married? Maybe, even before he was caught? Worse, is there some secret reason that Eddie holds for what he'd done to the girls, something he would have only shared with someone he loved and trusted above all else? Is it a test?  
  
He licks his lips, taking in the man before him. He thinks of him, angrily turning his back on Waylon the first night they'd had sex. Of him in the shower, still too ashamed to admit that fingering his perineum feels good. And Waylon recalls himself, masturbating to a picture of a man for the first time, and the deep, dark shame that hung over him for months after, until he'd risen above it.  
  
"They were supposed to fix you," he whispers, tears welling in his eyes at the sudden clarity. Tears for Eddie, trying to "fix" his homosexuality by forcing himself to sleep with women. And for the women too, faceless and innocent in his mind, their only crime unable to get a man's dick hard. He picked them up in parking lots and bars and took them home, or maybe they took him home, and when he looked at their naked bodies he didn't feel anything, so he held them down and strangled them, or hit them until they were still and unrecognizable, because it must have been their fault. He was _straight_. It must have been _their fault_.  
  
Eddie grimaces, and Waylon knows he's right from the way his eyes slip down. "I remember being in the hospital before Mount Massive. The doctors showed me photos of them and I couldn't see them. They were a blur. On some level I knew that they had done something wrong and I had punished them. I felt justified. I was confused why they were holding me for something I thought was perfectly reasonable."  
  
He keeps running his finger along Waylon's clavicle. Back and forth. "I must have made some kind of breakthrough when I met you. Because I met you after, didn't I? I wouldn't have been able to hold you and touch you like this if I hadn't told you about them... If I hadn't recognized that I had killed them, and why. That version of myself who couldn't even see what I had done would never love you like this."  
  
His fingers stop, pressed to a pulse point. "You were a patient too. I remember you, only a flash, but... you were wearing a prisoner's jumpsuit."  
  
Waylon shudders. His teeth chatter.  
  
"You knew what I had done. That I was a killer, a vicious monster. And you loved me anyways," Eddie murmurs. "So I think that must mean... Inside of you there is a similar vicious creature."  
  
Waylon takes a deep breath to steady himself. He can't respond. He doesn't know how. They're lies, all of it, but... there's a kernel of truth to it. Part of him had loved Eddie in the depths of Mount Massive, even if it had been physical, or an attachment born of trauma. The thing that whispered in Lisa's voice, then in his own. There is some kind of creature in him. Some kind of monster.  
  
"I won't ask you to say it. What you've done. I want to remember on my own," Eddie says, eyes returning to Waylon's, full of affection. "But I didn't want you to feel alone. Or to worry about what would happen when I found out..."  
  
Waylon feels like he's overflowing. He chokes on tears, rolling forward into Eddie's chest, wrapping his arms around the man's large, solid body and tucking his face against his skin. Eddie makes soothing sounds, rubbing his back. He comforts him, because he thinks he knows. He doesn't know at all.  
  
As Waylon struggles to control himself, Eddie starts to hum. It's Sunshine, again. Waylon recalls the words again, and calm washes over him.  
  
 _In all my dreams, dear, you seem to leave me. When I awake my poor heart pains._   
  
Eddie wouldn't hurt his husband, Waylon's confident of that. But a stranger who lied his way into his bed, who fabricated a life together to earn his trust and manipulate him to his wishes?  
  
He'll fucking _kill_ him.  
  
And the strange thing, Waylon realizes, is that it's _fine_. The fear he feels, about Eddie finding out, the fear he's felt for the last days that they've been together, the anger he felt only hours ago when the guard threatened all of that... He doesn't want Eddie to _leave_ him. Not like he left him after they'd had sex the first time, walking from the room without looking back, as if he didn't care. Waylon's lost everything important in his life. And if he can't have this... the idea of still being alive, after, without this... He can't bear it.  
  
He had thought his fear was of pain, of violence, of getting murdered over a toilet or in a shower. No. It's being _alone_ again.  
  
And knowing this, knowing that Eddie is almost definitely going to snap when he finds out, that he'll probably strangle him, or break his neck, or stab him if he can find something sharp... It's not exactly inviting, but it's... peaceful.   
  
If Eddie kills him, he won't be alone. He'll be part of him forever.  
  
I really am going completely fucking crazy, Waylon thinks as he finally drifts to sleep to the sound of Eddie's soft singing.  
  
You were already crazy, the voice murmurs.  
  
 _So when you come back and make me happy, I'll forgive you dear, I'll take all the blame._  
  



	31. Chapter 31

They wake at 7am as a guard pulls the lock on the door.  
  
Eddie is already sitting upright when Waylon reorients himself. They're both naked and tousled, sleepy eyed. Waylon had slept deeply, with no dreams, and from Eddie's confused expression as he listens for further activity at the door, he did the same.   
  
"They go through and unlock all the doors in the morning," Waylon explains, flopping back into bed. His voice is still creaky and throat sore from taking Eddie's dick the night before.  
  
Eddie grunts, but doesn't lie back, continuing to watch the door long after they walk away. Waylon can faintly make out the clunking noise of the other doors unlocking as the guards retreat from the hall, and the soft shuffle of feet as a few of the other patients rise. He wants to doze, at least until 9 when they need to take their pills, but he can tell Eddie's going to do no such thing with the door unlocked.   
  
Sighing, Waylon's just started dragging himself out from beneath the covers when there's a timid knock on the door.  
  
Waylon's skin prickles, suddenly aware of his nudity, and he scrambles for the dresser at the same time Eddie does, sorting through their mixed clothing to find their sizes, eyes still on the door. Just as Waylon locates a pair of pants in his size, the knock comes again, slightly louder, and Miles Upshur's voice calls out quietly, "Park?"  
  
Waylon breathes a sigh of relief. He tugs on the pants and steps toward the door, only to bump into Eddie's large body. The man looks halfway frantic as he positions himself between him and the door.  
  
"Do you know who that is?" Eddie hisses as he tugs up his own pants and thrusts a shirt at Waylon.  
  
Waylon grapples with the shirt, then answers in a whisper, "It's one of the other patients. One of the other guys who wants to escape."  
  
Eddie's eyes narrow. "How do you know him?"  
  
"I met him the other day, during, uh, my exam." Waylon tries to slip by him, only to be intercepted again. "We need to talk to him."  
  
"I really hope you're not jerking off, Park, because I'm opening this door," Miles calls again, and the knob on the door jiggles. Waylon takes advantage of Eddie's momentary distraction to dart past him and press himself up against the door.  
  
"Just a second," he says through the door. He hears an impatient huff on the other side. Behind him, Eddie looms aggressively, looking like he's one wrong word from dragging Waylon away from the door by force. "If we want to pull this off, we need allies."  
  
"You trust this man?" Eddie nearly snarls in a whisper. "You just met him!"  
  
"We want the same things. No one wants to be in here. We can rely on that, at least."  
  
Eddie looks like he wants to protest further, but there's more low murmuring outside the door, and finally he huffs and steps away to dig through the clothing for a shirt in his size. "If he even looks at either of us funny..." The 'I'll tear him apart' is implied.   
  
That might be the best I can hope for, Waylon thinks, and twists the doorknob, pushing it open a few inches.  
  
Miles stands on the other side, dressed in a patient's uniform, feet slippered and a sweatshirt tied around his waist. He has his arms crossed, looking frustrated, but his face cracks in a genuine, friendly smile when Waylon emerges. "Park! You made it! The guys said they heard commotion down here late last night and that you might be back." He jams a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Dennis, standing a few feet behind him, nervously wringing his hands, a curious expression on his face. Miles snorts. "Dennis said it sounds like you're talkin' to yourself. You go bananas upstairs?"  
  
Things get ugly quick.  
  
Waylon opens his mouth to reply, realization dawning on him as he looks at the large man, his bulk much less intimidating compared to Eddie. Eddie, who has located his shirt and pulled it on, and stepped right up behind him, pushing the door wide open. "He's talking to me."  
  
Waylon is looking right into Dennis' face as it happens. The man's expression doesn't change for a long moment. Then he goes white, and a breath escapes him in a ragged gasp, like a man who's just emerged from an icy river, and he cleaves himself to the far wall, his huge round eyes fixed on Eddie.  
  
Miles doesn't see Dennis' reaction right away, just glances between Eddie and Waylon passively, looking almost amused. "Oh. That explains it." It's only when he turns and notices Dennis' posture that his mouth quirks in a frown.  
  
Waylon turns slightly to take in Eddie's expression. He's mildly disturbed when he looks at Dennis where he's frozen against the far wall, but there's no recognition there, and Waylon breathes a silent sigh of relief. There's more animosity when he looks at Miles, but he suspects it's his proximity more than anything, standing only an arm's reach from Waylon. Other than the looming posture and encroachment into Waylon's personal space, Eddie's not giving any indication of aggression.  
  
"T-the... the _Groom_ -" Dennis murmurs in a quavering voice, right before he slumps to the ground in a dead faint. Eddie's expression darkens, confused.  
  
Miles thins his lips, looking away from Dennis' prone form to Waylon. "Okay, should I be worried?"  
  
Waylon sighs and shakes his head in response, stepping towards Dennis, only to be grabbed and held fast by the back of his shirt. Miles' eyebrows climb his forehead as he observes Eddie gripping Waylon's shirt.  
  
"I just want to make sure he didn't crack his skull when he fell," Waylon says over his shoulder. "The guards might accuse us of hurting him."  
  
"Let that one check him," Eddie says, jerking his chin in Miles' direction. Miles scowls, looking like he might reply, but Waylon looks at him wide eyed and gives his head a quick shake. Miles makes an unhappy noise, then moves away.  
  
As Miles awkwardly pats at Dennis' shoulder to wake him up, Eddie leans close and murmurs in Waylon's ear. "Not especially competent allies."  
  
"Please be nice," Waylon answers in a low voice. "Trust me, they'll be useful. Also Dennis can hear you through a wall, so watch what you say."  
  
Eddie grimaces unhappily. "Which one's Dennis? The big one?" When Waylon nods, he continues, "What was it he called me? The groom? Am I supposed to understand what that's about?"  
  
Waylon purses his lips and turns back to the men on the floor, not replying. He doesn't want to pop open that can of worms, if he can help it. He can see Eddie's mouth open in his peripheral, about to protest, but then the men shuffle on the floor, Dennis starting to rouse, and Waylon notices with a start that there's a black strap on his ankle, tucked under his pant leg. There's an identical one on Miles' leg. "They put ankle monitors on you too."  
  
Miles looks up from where he's kneeling on the floor, jiggling the leg with the monitor like he'd forgotten it was there. "Ugh yeah, they came through yesterday and put them on everyone. Fucking itches." He sits back on his heels and taps at the box. "Thought for sure they'd bug them too. But it's just the GPS tracker and the zapper in here, huh. Nearly electrocuted myself trying to make sure."  
  
Waylon snorts. "I told you."  
  
"Guard presence has been way down too. Made me nervous, but honestly, those fucking guards are more trouble than the patients. And half these guys were trying to kill me in that asylum." Dennis blinks his eyes open then, disoriented, and Miles leans over him. Waylon notices it blocks his view of them, and wonders if it's deliberate. "This guy told me they had guards literally escorting you while you were down here, so as shitty as this is, it's gotta be better than that."   
  
He feels Eddie tug on his shirt, drawing him back until he's bumped up against his chest. Eddie is staring at Miles with increasing animosity.   
  
Waylon doesn't have time to analyze that just then, because suddenly Miles' ass hits the floor as Dennis kicks at him, scrambling backward down the hall, pale and wide eyed. He makes a last broken sound before he finally gains his feet, and bolts at full speed down the hall, and out of sight. Waylon leans further into the hall to watch him go, catching a few frightened faces peeking from their rooms, quickly slipping back inside as Eddie steps up behind him, ducking his head to clear the doorframe. Whether they recognize him, like Dennis had, or are simply responding to the size of him, he can't be sure. Waylon also notices the absence of guards. He can't even see any at the end of the hall, in the common area, where there were always two or three stationed.  
  
Miles is grumbling and rubbing at his arm where Dennis had kicked him, the scuff of a shoe print visible on the fabric. "Man, just when you think you know a guy."  
  
"You alright?" Waylon asks, feeling Eddie press closer behind him.  
  
Miles looks at him from the floor, and his eyes dart to Eddie, finally picking up on the bigger man's mood. He goes blank, and then his face splits in a wide, charming smile as he pushes himself to his feet. "We haven't met properly," he says to Eddie, sticking out his hand. "Miles Upshur, but please call me Frank around the guards. That's very important."  
  
Eddie just glares at him, looking at his hand as if it's offensive. Waylon clears his throat. "This is Eddie," he says. "My husband."  
  
Miles blinks, his mouth falling open. His eyebrows threaten to climb into his hairline. It's extremely clear that he does not believe that for a second. Waylon gives him a pointed look, and Miles snaps his mouth shut, dropping his arm to his side; a fast learner, apparently. "Well, it's nice to meet you! Sorry about Dennis, uh. He probably thinks you're someone else."  
  
Eddie sniffs, shifting his weight at Waylon's back. "Darling, are we about done here?"  
  
Miles eyebrows pop up again, and Waylon can tell he's biting his lips to keep from laughing. Waylon is seriously reconsidering whether he likes Miles. He gives the man a sour look, and then gently pulls away from Eddie, just far enough to turn toward him and guide him back in through the doorway. Eddie gives him a questioning look, but goes without complaint, until Waylon looks at Miles over his shoulder and gestures him closer.  
  
Eddie's body becomes hard and immovable as stone, and he says angrily. "I don't want this strange man in our bedroom, Waylon." Waylon startles back just as Miles replies from the hall, "Hey, I'm not exactly jumping to get in there, either."  
  
"I don't want us to be overheard," Waylon hisses at Eddie, just loud enough for Miles to hear. "We need to work together if-"  
  
"We'll do fine on our own," Eddie growls, eyes still locked on Miles. Miles crosses his arms and sighs, almost comically skeptical.  
  
"Just hear him out," Waylon pleads, pressing his hand against Eddie's chest placatingly. Waylon's not sure where this sudden opposition came from; he had expected clashes with the other patients, but he had expected them to be from the other end, since Eddie had seemed largely indifferent to them when they were upstairs. Eddie disliking Miles so intently and suddenly is perplexing. "He has useful information." Then, more quietly. "Please, Eddie."  
  
Eddie glowers down at him, and Waylon can see the moment his resolve breaks. His expression is almost grim as he steps away from Waylon, further into the room. "Fine. If that's what you want."  
  
Waylon breathes a sigh of relief and looks to Miles, who reluctantly steps forward into the room, closing the door most of the way behind him. He sees the reporter's eyes skim the room, taking in their single large bed and rumpled sheets, and Waylon flushes. He leans on the dresser under the window as Eddie leans a shoulder against the bathroom doorframe, crossing his arms menacingly and staring down Miles as he fidgets near the door.  
  
"Okay, so," Miles starts, keeping his voice hushed. "Like I said, they put us all in these cuffs yesterday. About half the guards cleared out after. Dennis says he heard a lot of them talking, on account of his..." Miles pauses and taps his ear. "They're being replaced. With Murkoff security."  
  
Waylon blanches. Even Eddie reacts, dropping his arms and leaning away from the frame. Waylon struggles to keep his voice down. "What? When?"  
  
"Soon," Miles answers. "I didn't have a ton of encounters with security while I was in Mount Massive, except for the end of it. Based on that and what the other guys have said, I'm getting that this is a really fucking bad thing."  
  
"Murkoff security carry semi-automatic rifles and wear full body armor," Waylon says, a sick feeling in his stomach. "They're practically privately owned soldiers. Blue Garden's security are little league compared to that."  
  
"So basically, if we're gonna try something, we need to try it sooner rather than later," Miles says. "Dennis heard it could be as soon as three days from now when the new guys start showing up. But, meanwhile... They're short staffed on security. We could just storm the gates."  
  
"Except for the monitors," Eddie interjects suddenly. Waylon and Miles both glance up. Waylon gives Eddie an approving smile, and he can tell from the way the man shuffles from foot to foot that he's pleased with the attention. "They'll electrocute the lot of us to death before we cross the yard."  
  
It's Miles' turn to go ashen, more so than he already is. "What? They told us these things were basically dog shock collars."  
  
Waylon shakes his head. "Dr. Clark told me explicitly that they could kill me with it."  
  
There's a growl from Eddie's direction, and Waylon glances at him sharply. The man is practically gnashing his teeth, hands clenched into fists. "I'm going to kill that cunt."  
  
"I certainly wouldn't get in your way," Miles says as he studies the strap on his leg in a new light. Waylon thinks that maybe the glance Eddie throws at him is slightly softer.  
  
Waylon rubs his face, trying to gather his thoughts. "Why now?" he says. "Murkoff was staying out of it, distancing themselves. Why send in people now?"  
  
"Because they're starting to pick up that things aren't exactly normal here," Miles answers. "Not that they were to begin with. But they think the nanomachines are getting more active. Stuff like Dennis' hearing, and my..." He gestures to his midsection. "...whole deal. One of the other guys can see through walls. I've watched him do it! And they think they've got a dude predicting the future!"  
  
"Enhanced abilities are one thing," Waylon says skeptically. "That's supernatural."  
  
"Then you've got the fact that half of us can pick a guy up and throw him across a room. That's just a plain old security threat." Miles points to himself. "Count me as one of those, by the way. It's fucked up."  
  
Waylon thinks of the man he effortlessly decapitated, shifting uncomfortably. Eddie steps almost imperceptibly forward, but Waylon determinedly ignores it.  
  
"But even more importantly than that," Miles says, glancing up at Eddie pointedly. "Everyone's gotten a whole fucking lot LESS CRAZY. And it's scaring the fucking hell out of them."  
  
Waylon furrows his eyebrows. "Dr. Lin seemed pleased with... with everyone's progress. Wasn't this what they wanted?"  
  
Miles shakes his head. "I mean, yeah, they want everyone to stop bashing their heads against walls and jerking off in corners, but not like, coherent. They've caught on to the sedative thing. They don't work on us. You've noticed how they keep switching pills? They know they're just plain not working. They wanted everyone docile and agreeable, instead they've got guys making moral and legal arguments and straight up protesting."  
  
Waylon feels a cold weight in his chest. "They know. They already know we're going to try something."  
  
Miles nods, leaning back against the wall as if he's exhausted. When Waylon looks over to Eddie, he's giving the pair of them a contemplative look, eyes darting back and forth. He wants to ask him how he's doing, whether he's processing all of this, but he knows he won't get a useful answer with Miles in the room. He's just thankful the man is handling this encounter so well after that rocky beginning.  
  
"That must be why they're bringing in more patients," Waylon says, thinking out loud. "Eddie and I were hurried out of the cells upstairs because they want to use them for new people. They must be gathering them all so Murkoff can police us all at once."  
  
"Or wipe us out all at once," Miles grumbles.   
  
Eddie shifts on his feet. Waylon bites his thumb, mulling it over. "The other patients. Is anyone planning anything?"  
  
Miles shrugs. "Some of these guys are real secretive, making their own plans. Couple guys tried slipping out through the cafeteria yesterday, another dude tried to bust a window on the bridge. No one is really in charge, so no one's making plans. I think it's to our advantage; security wouldn't expect a coordinated act."  
  
"So we get together whoever's willing to cooperate," Waylon says. "We need to act. Tonight or tomorrow."  
  
"We still don't even know what we should DO. How do we get to the first floor? What do we even do when we're there? Look at this weather; if we even get a car we might not be able to drive it out, and we could die in this if we go on foot."  
  
Waylon contemplates. "I don't suppose you've had any luck controlling the Walrider? Because that would solve a lot of problems."  
  
Miles shakes his head. "I mean... I've had some theories about that. I keep having these nightmares but it's all like, computer code."  
  
Waylon perks. "You think you can access its programming mentally?"  
  
"I think it's alive, and dreaming," Miles answers, a far away look in his eye. "It has... an intent. I think... I think we could communicate with it. But fuck me if I know how."  
  
Waylon drifts in thought for a moment, imagining the wild possibilities of a sentient hivemind of nanotechnology. "I need a computer."  
  
Miles scoffs. "You think you're just going to log in to its wifi signal and start chatting with it? There's probably a whole team upstairs working on that."  
  
"I don't think it's occurred to them," Waylon says. "They're focused on biology. They don't have tech people, besides the guy who runs their scanning software, and he's just clicking buttons." It's the whole reason Murkoff _hired me_ in the first place, is what Waylon doesn't say. They load up on doctors and scientists but then at the last second they hire one guy to debug their old software.  
  
Miles grimaces, but nods. "Okay, I'll ask the guys to start looking for computers. I know Dr. Lin carries around a tablet thing, she's hanging out in her office talking to patients all day, and I think there's an old one in the medicine room for tracking records... Maybe there's more. Do we have a plan B in case your hacker scheme falls through?"  
  
Waylon sighs and shakes his head. He looks up at Eddie, who has inched closer and closer to them, looking at Waylon now with a perplexed interest. He's been uncharacteristically quiet. Waylon realizes he's never talked like this with him, about anything other than their relationship and past trauma; it must be strange for him. Waylon doesn't let himself worry about whether it will jog memories. He can't afford to.  
  
"Plan B is we use all the strong guys and rip off the doors of the stairwells and make a run for it," Waylon answers. "If we need the Walrider, we'll just have to hope it manifests itself. If we wait until Murkoff shows up, I don't think we're getting out of here."  
  
Miles nods, scratching at the shorn stubble at his neck uncomfortably. "I'll go see if Dennis has gotten his shit together and we'll spread it around." He pauses for a long moment, looking back and forth between him and Eddie for a moment, his face going blank again. Waylon thinks it must be the expression he makes when he's trying to figure something out.  
  
"Eddie... Can I call you Eddie?" he says, adopting a docile expression.   
  
Eddie sniffs, bristling, but answers, "I suppose."  
  
Miles glances wide eyed at Waylon, as if trying to communicate something, then back to Eddie, pointing to himself. "They think I'm a guy named Frank Manera. It's super, super important no one calls me Miles around the guards. They might, you know, _disappear_ me."  
  
"Miles is a reporter," Waylon adds. "He wasn't supposed to be in Mount Massive."  
  
Eddie glances between them again, contemplating. "Alright."  
  
Miles gives him that look again. He points to the two of them. "So it's Waylon, and Eddie. Real names? Do I need to call you something else around the staff?"  
  
"I think you're the only one pulling that scam in here," Waylon answers with an uncomfortable laugh. He's not quite sure what Miles' is getting at.  
  
"And real marriage?" Miles asks, quickly and nonchalantly. "You're in a double room, so obviously the guards think it's real."  
  
Waylon's eyebrow twitches, and for a second too long, he doesn't respond.  
  
"Of course it's real," Eddie sneers, too distracted by glaring at Miles to notice Waylon's slip. Miles doesn't miss it, eyes cutting sharply towards him. Waylon realizes that was the purpose of the question all along. Maybe the narrative Dennis gave him doesn't match up, or maybe he's just picking up on the off-ness of their relationship. Maybe it's the fact that Waylon said he was going to be thrown in a room with a violent psychopath and suddenly he reemerges with a massive, angry hubby.  
  
"We met before Mount Massive," Waylon adds quickly, silently urging Miles to drop the conversation and just play along. Miles has that blank look again, but then he smiles.  
  
"Okay, awesome. I didn't wanna let something slip and then realize you had a different story with the guards."  
  
Waylon doesn't know how to convey the nuance of the situation without words, that Eddie believes they're married, that the staff know they're not but are continuing to support the lie, and that Waylon's perfectly happy going along with this for now because the sex is fantastic and he's in something kind of like love with a (hopefully former) violent psychopath. So he just sucks his lips between his teeth and nods. "Can you let the others know as well? It's going to cause some trouble for us if patients keep responding to Eddie the way Dennis just did."  
  
Miles makes firm eye contact as he nods. Waylon reads the underlying message: You good?  
  
Waylon nods back. He means it, mostly.   
  
Eddie is glaring harder and harder at Miles now, who glances at the clock. "Wowza. That's the time? Med handout starts in an hour, you guys had better get straightened up." He goes for the door, pulling it wide and glancing over his shoulder with a cheeky grin as he steps out. "You know, put on some underwear?"  
   
He's already skittered away when Eddie takes a long stride to the door and slams it closed. Waylon flushes, looking down at the folds of his loose patient pants for any hint of immodesty, and finding none. A glance at Eddie is more enlightening, his tight pants revealing the soft outline of his prick. Waylon had been too distracted to notice.  
  
"I don't like that man," Eddie growls as he whirls on Waylon, temper rising. "I don't think we should work with him."  
  
Waylon's face is still red as he pulls himself together. "But you heard. Murkoff security is coming. Uniting behind one plan is the best shot we have."  
  
"Assuming he's being honest," Eddie continues, eyes dark, sneer catching the corner of his upper lip and revealing the white point of his eye tooth. He's unsettled, in an odd way Waylon's not familiar with. The closest comparison is the day they were separated, though this is far less intense.  
  
"It matches up with other things I've heard. And it makes sense," Waylon sighs. "I don't think he has any reason to lie."  
  
"Clearly they want your skillset, whatever that is," Eddie grunts as he crosses the room toward the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head. "They want to manipulate you into helping them, at the expense of everyone else."  
  
Waylon's brow furrows. "What do you mean? They want to help everyone-"  
  
"Please, Darling, you're not really so naive," Eddie says from the dark door of the bathroom, voice and expression venomous. "The way he was looking at you? The lewd commentary on your state of undress? The man is obviously infatuated."  
  
Waylon almost barks a laugh in response. It's absurd. Waylon's been around men who were attracted to him, and he's certainly not getting it from Miles. But then he freezes before he says so. The pieces slot into place.  
  
"You're jealous," Waylon says, bewildered. Eddie glares, and Waylon's sure he can see his face flush in the dark. He feels a bubbling warmth in his chest, and he has to fight back a smile, not wanting to appear patronizing. Seriously, he says, "You don't have anything to worry about."  
  
"You like him," Eddie accuses. His voice is sour, but there's a vulnerability to his posture that tugs on Waylon's heart.  
  
Waylon approaches him, pulling off his own shirt as he does. Eddie flushes redder and looks away, like he's determined to avoid the distraction of Waylon's body, and stay mad at him. He steps backward as Waylon comes close enough for their skin to touch, until he's caged in the bathroom, Waylon between him and the door.  
  
"I like him," Waylon says softly. Eddie's eyes cut to him, betrayed and furious, but Waylon keeps himself calm, and persists. "Like a _friend_. I'm not attracted to him. I don't love him. Not like I love you."  
  
"The way he looks at you-"  
  
"He's not attracted to me. I don't think I'm his type. I'm pretty sure he was referring to _your_ dick when he mentioned underwear." Waylon palms Eddie's penis loosely through his pants in emphasis, and Eddie jerks in his grip, cock already responding to his nudity and proximity. Eddie's still trying not to look at him, but his breathing has accelerated.  
  
"Marriage is a promise. I would never betray your trust like that." Waylon cocks his head, looking up at Eddie with wide-eyed sincerity. "Just like I know you'd never betray mine."  
  
Eddie's eyes cut back to him then, bright and hurt, and Waylon knows he has him.  
  
They only have an hour, but Waylon is used to time constraints, and makes quick work of prepping himself and letting Eddie sink his cock into him in the shower. Waylon hangs onto the shower head and lets the water run hot down his back as Eddie grips his hips from behind and pounds his thick cock into his asshole. The water has rinsed away most of the lube by the end, the friction of their skin close to burning, and Eddie finishes by pressing his hips in tight to Waylon's ass and rubbing out Waylon's orgasm from his cock with increasing skill, letting the contractions of his body as he comes milk Eddie's own dick. Eddie clutches Waylon's small body to his and pants out a quiet litany of apologies as they come down after, and Waylon kisses him, and tells him it's okay.  
  
"I'm sorry it's so difficult for me to be open with you," Eddie huffs against his wet skin. "I'm trying."  
  
Waylon's breath catches in his chest as he watches the last of his semen circle the drain. Luckily, Eddie doesn't notice his responding quiet.  
  
While they're dressing, the splint that had been dissolving off of Eddie's nose for days now is finally pulled off; Waylon studies the slight bruise that remains as the man gently touches the bridge of his nose, finding it almost pain free. Both of their bodies are similar, bruises and wounds almost completely invisible; the bruising on Waylon's neck from where Eddie had tried to strangle him the first time they'd touched has faded completely. Their scarring is still pronounced, and their eyes are still blood red, which Waylon suspects isn't something that's going away anytime soon. After they scrub up, shave, and brush their teeth, they dress in layers, pulling sweaters over their shirts, almost like they can armor themselves against what they will encounter outside. Eddie gives him a pointed look when he tugs up his underpants, and Waylon quirks his lips at that.   
  
At 8:50am, they leave the room.


	32. Chapter 32

The halls on the residential floor are mostly empty by this point, the only signs of life a few stragglers in their rooms, giving them nervous glances as they move by. Eddie's been given slippers, which make a very quiet sticky sound each time the brand new rubber sole pulls from the ground, but he's otherwise silent behind Waylon's shoulder as he leads him toward the elevators in the common room. Even without the sound of the shoes, Waylon would know he was there by his body heat. It sends a tingle through him and makes him clench his sore hole as they walk.   
  
Waylon tries not to let his gaze linger too long on any of the other patients they encounter, but he has to catch himself a few times. The difference from only days ago is significant; the patients he remembers were quiet, expressions reflecting their pain and misery, but these patients look... collected. Their mannerisms are almost ordinary, their scars the only thing setting them apart from normal people.  
  
There are three men waiting for the elevator when he and Eddie walk into the main room. There are no guards in sight. The three give the pair of them wide eyed looks, and Waylon feels Eddie stiffen at his shoulder; he can practically feel the heat in the glare the big man levels at the strangers. Waylon gives them his own firm look, trying to look apologetic, but also warning. Whether they pick up on his nuance, or only Eddie's threat, they step away from the doors submissively when the elevator arrives, letting the pair of them take the elevator down alone.  
  
"Do you have to threaten the other patients?" Waylon huffs as the doors close. "We're on the same side."  
  
"We'll see," Eddie says briskly.   
  
Waylon can't really argue with him, since as much as he'd like to think of them as potential allies, he knows he can't prove the trustworthiness of strangers. Eddie could be right. He sighs, and then the door opens.  
  
The main bulk of patients is here, lining up in front of the medication window, and when they see Eddie, some shrink away, recognition in their eyes. There is a guard presence here too, several of them scattered at the far corners of the room, looking agitated; Eddie glares at them unhappily, discomfort leaking into his posture, but it means he's not glaring at the patients so Waylon counts it as a win. Waylon, for his part, tries not to look at anyone, focusing on staying close to Eddie as they move toward the back of the line.   
  
He spots Miles about halfway down, trying to comfort Dennis, who looks like he's on the verge of another panic attack. As they pass, Miles gives Waylon a nod, then looks up at Eddie. "Hey man. Can you say hi to my friend here? He's all mixed up because you look like someone else, I think it would help."  
  
Dennis looks like he's about to throw up, or pass out, or both. Eddie looks down his nose at the two of them and sniffs. "I don't see how that's my problem."  
  
"Come on, be a pal, like, just tell him you've never seen him before-"  
  
"The Groom... It's the Groom..." Dennis mumbles, unable to unlock his eyes from Eddie, who has already looked away and is glowering at the guards again.  
  
"Or tell him you don't know what _that_ means, at least."  
  
"I don't know what that means," Eddie grunts.  
  
Dennis' eyes roll to Waylon just then, as if he's just noticed him there. Dennis takes in a sharp breath, like he's startled. "I shoulda known," he mumbles in that deep country voice. "I shoulda known it was you all along. You ain't just one 'a his girls. You're the _Bride_."  
  
Waylon feels the word hit him low in his stomach, half pain, half pleasure. He still feels the ache in his ass from letting the Groom take him, and the word brings him back, for only a second, to those dark rooms, the sewing machines, the delicate white dresses on their forms, half finished. To his cock half hard at the violent beast's promise to fill him up.  
  
Behind him, Eddie makes a grunt, so low that only Waylon can hear it, and Waylon can feel his dick twitch in his pants where it's brushing against his arm. Waylon turns sharply and looks up at him, disapproving scowl fixed on his face. Eddie avoids Waylon's gaze and tries to pretend nothing's happened, though it's clear he knows he's being glared at.  
  
The fucker doesn't remember anything significant from the Walrider incident, from his descent into madness as the Groom, but outside that madness, of course, _of course_ "Bride" still does it for him. Waylon waits until he's facing Miles again to roll his eyes. Miles gives him The Eyebrows, and Waylon gives him a quick head shake that says "Don't worry about it."  
  
Dennis is looking back and forth between Waylon and Eddie with bewilderment and horror, but he seems to have stopped trying to bolt, so Waylon decides to count it as a temporary win, and reaches to tug on Eddie's arm. "We're going to get in line. We can work this out later?"  
  
Miles just sighs and nods as Eddie happily hooks his arm around Waylon and pulls him away. The other patients give them even stranger looks as they reach the back, and Eddie stays that way, arm slung over him like a date. Possessive.  
  
Waylon knows he should protest, but he feels warm in his chest, and still a bit in the belly from being called "The Bride", and so he lets him. And isn't that just the most fucked up thing.   
  
At 9 sharp the window slots open and a single tired nurse starts taking names and handing out cups of pills. As they step closer to the front, Waylon recognizes him suddenly; it's Daniel, one of the nurses who cared for him when he was first brought here. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, guilt lines creasing his mouth and forehead. Waylon vaguely remembers being attracted to him, only on a shallow, physical level, because he had been big and broad and handsome. Waylon can't help but think about how small the man looks now, how frail, compared to the monster currently holding Waylon to his side.  
  
Lots of fucked up thoughts today, he thinks, as they finally reach the window and down their pills, the same assortment they'd been given the day before. The pills stick to his tongue, leaving a sweet taste.  
  
The other patients have mostly cleared the common room after, which is unusual; Waylon suspects they're gathered in the library and recreation room, or have fled back upstairs, trying to avoid Eddie. Those who haven't encountered him before have most likely gotten the word on him by now. Miles is nowhere in sight, probably still trying to talk Dennis out of a delusion which he's definitely not having.  
  
"We have a few hours until we have to go to those meetings with Dr. Lin," Waylon mumbles so only Eddie can hear. "Wanna go do something?"  
  
"We should return to the room and wait there," Eddie says uneasily.  
  
Waylon smirks at him, trying to look flirtatious, and tugs on his arm. "Come on. Come see something with me, and if you don't like it, we can head back."  
  
Eddie sighs and makes the face of the man who can't deny him anything. Waylon grins wider.  
  
Waylon leads him first to the bridge that crosses into the second building which houses the cafeteria, and they dawdle for long minutes as Eddie gazes out at the torrents of white snow falling on the dark shapes of the trees outside.  
  
"I'm not sure it'll still be open," Waylon says when he finally pulls Eddie away and toward the elevator. "We can swipe some chairs and watch the snow from the bridge if it isn't."  
  
"We can return to the room and watch the snow from that window just as easily," Eddie quips, though there's no malice in it.  
  
As they wait for the elevator, Waylon peeks at the cafeteria. It's curiously empty, the faint smell of breakfast cooking in the back, but few patients seated at the tables. Waylon stomach grumbles, reminding him that he hasn't eaten since the night before. He files it away for now.  
  
The courtyard doors are indeed unlocked. The halls and the yard itself are eerily empty, the reduction in guards evident. There is a cold gust and flurry of flakes as Waylon pulls the door, the snow stacked a foot high, the walks unshoveled. The sky is gray and dark above them as the push out into it, the wind whistling over the top of the buildings above them, but the air in their protected space is still. The snow muffles the sound of the door closing behind them, and then it's quiet.  
  
Eddie steps forward a bit, transfixed by the falling flurries. He takes a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut. "It smells so clean."  
  
"This was apparently some kind of high end treatment facility before they brought us here," Waylon says, brushing frozen snow off a bench with futility, before resigning himself to a wet ass and settling on it. "Luxury health care for the wealthy. I bet there's even nicer courtyards that we don't have access to."  
  
Eddie is turning in a circle, taking in the scent and sight of the tall dark evergreens, the bare branches of the young newly planted deciduous trees that line the walkways. The snow piles high over where Waylon knows the basketball court lies, as if someone shoveled it all there once or twice, but then gave up. The walls stretch up high around them.   
  
Waylon imagines, at another time in his life, this place would feel oppressive. Depressing. But after what he's been through in the past month, it's beautiful. Like drops of water in a desert. He turns his face to the sky and lets his eyes close against the bright blank sky, flakes of snow brushing feather light against his cheeks as they fall.  
  
The snowball that splatters against his shirt is not painful, but also definitely not feather light or lovely at all.  
  
His eyes pop open wide and he splutters, pulling his cold wet t-shirt away from his skin. He looks to Eddie, expecting him to defend him from whatever hooligan had pelted him.  
  
They're still alone in the courtyard. Eddie's hands are working quickly, forming another loose snowball. The expression he's wearing on his face is entirely unapologetic, fighting back a smirk. Waylon gasps, completely bewildered. "You!"  
  
"The temptation was too great, Darling," Eddie says with mirth. "You present an irresistible target." Then he tosses the snowball toward him, underhanded and gentle, and Waylon tries to catch it rather than dodge. The loosely packed snow comes apart and dribbles down his hands into his lap.   
  
"Eddie! This is NOT why I brought you outside!"  
  
The man huffs a laugh, and Waylon's not sure he's ever heard that particular laugh out of Eddie before. Carefree. Genuine. Fragile. There's a giddy feeling blooming in Waylon's chest as his face splits into a wicked grin. The worry over his lies, over Murkoff, melt away like the snow in his hands.  
  
They dive for the snow at their feet in tandem, and what follows is a clumsy and completely ridiculous snowball fight. Eddie is stilted, knowing the principle of the thing, but clearly restraining himself. Waylon imagines he doesn't want to hurt him; a snowball thrown with the force Eddie's capable of would leave a good sized bruise, he's sure. Waylon is uncoordinated and his feet keep slipping in the snow as Eddie easily dodges his attacks, still quick as a cat.  
  
"This isn't fair!" Waylon barks as he misses again. "You're twice as big a target as me!"  
  
Eddie laughs, his breath billowing in the cold air. "Don't give up, my dear!"   
  
Waylon pauses with his hands full of snow, taking in the sight of him. Eddie's eyes are bright and blue in the winter air, the red darkened in the winter light. His pale cheeks and nose are flushed red, along with the tips of his fingers. Despite the scars, and the darkness of his eyes, he's beautiful. God, Waylon _loves_ him.  
  
Eddie is watching him, a bit more carefully. "What's that look on your face?"  
  
Waylon swallows hard, and then takes a careful step forward... only to have his feet slip from under him, planting him on his back in the deep snow. As he feels it begin to soak through his sweater, he grunts out a breath. "Ow."  
  
Eddie is over him in an instant, stricken. "Oh god, Darling, are you hurt?! I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have- I didn't mean to-"  
  
Waylon grins, reaching up to tug at the neck of his shirt, pulling him down against him. He kisses him, because he can't help himself, the skin of their lips and noses cold and chapped as they press against one another. Eddie is hesitant, then gains confidence, teeth catching at Waylon's tongue and lips. His broad chest comes to rest against Waylon's, pressing him further into the cold snow, and soaking the front of his shirt against Waylon's wet one. Waylon hikes an ankle up to Eddie's hip, slotting their bodies together, and considers letting Eddie rub one out against him right there in the empty courtyard.  
  
Then there's the thunk of the door opening. Eddie pushes himself up, caging Waylon with his arms, body alert, as a patient takes two steps into the courtyard, sees them lying in the snow, and stops.  
  
"Um," the man says. He takes a nervous step backward, turns, and leaves.  
  
Waylon starts to laugh as he presses a hand over his face in embarrassment, thinking about what the patient might tell the others. If there was any doubt that the two of them were lovers, he'd bet this puts it to rest.  
  
Eddie huffs and begins to lean away. "I don't find it particularly funny, Darling."  
  
Waylon tugs him back down, grinning. "I know something you'll find funny."  
  
The man looks at him quizzically, and then Waylon pushes a handful of snow up the back of his shirt. "Got you."  
  
He's wondering if he'll get slapped, maybe as a reflex, but Eddie's body goes still. His face morphs into shock, then delight, then is quickly schooled into a facsimile of anger as he pins Waylon's arms to his sides and rolls him through the snow, soaking the both of them to the skin. Waylon can't stop laughing. It feels so good. It all feels so good. Eddie kisses him again, huffing great, warm clouds of breath against his mouth. He says, "Thank you for bringing me here. Thank you."


	33. Chapter 33

Minutes later, they drag themselves inside, dripping wet and cold. Waylon's invigorated, though he knows he won't be for long as he tests the way his wet clothes cling to his body. Eddie looks entirely unrepentant, striding confidently at his shoulder with a lightness he hasn't demonstrated before, slicking back his disheveled hair as they ride the elevator up and enter the now crowded cafeteria.  
  
Eyes dart to them and the room sobers and quiets as the pair of them walk through. They're soaked, clothing making soggy noises as they walk, but Eddie doesn't seem self conscious about it, so Waylon can't bring himself to either. It's both similar and entirely the opposite of how he'd felt when he'd been escorted by guards. Separate, unequal. Special. Dangerous.  
  
Waylon catches a familiar face in the small crowd; Miles is seated with Dennis and his group, watching him wide-eyed. He shakes his head in confusion, as if saying "What the fuck, man?" Waylon shrugs.   
  
Eddie takes more food than they need, slipping extra oranges and plastic wrapped muffins into his and Waylon's pockets. The woman behind the counter gives them a look, but can tell they're more trouble than they're worth, and doesn't kick up a fuss. Part of Waylon delights in it; he feels powerful, with Eddie by his side. The other part tries to remind him about allies and plans and why NOT scaring the shit out of everyone is a totally reasonable thing to do. But as much as he wants to feel bad for intimidating the other men, he can't really bring himself to.  
  
One of the two guards at the exit look like they might try to stop them when they leave carrying plates full of breakfast, but the other gives him a nudge, and they pass without incident. The abscond to the room and strip naked, Waylon collecting and laying their wet clothes over the surface of the dresser and the curtain rod in the shower, and when he returns, Eddie rolls him up in the blankets and they eat in bed, watching the snow fall.   
  
They have sex again after. Waylon tries to explain that he's not sure he can get hard again so soon, but Eddie is persistent, and ultimately successful. He presses his body down against Waylon's under the warm sheets, their bellies full of oatmeal and orange slices and scrambled eggs. He calls him "lovely" and "precious" and his voice stutters as he almost calls him "Bride" and he catches himself, to Waylon's disappointment. Waylon shows him how to masturbate both of their cocks at once in his large hand. They use little lube, just enough to take off the sharp edge of friction. Waylon's down to less than one tube of the stuff now, and dreads asking for more. If things work out, he hopes he won't need to ask for more.  
  
After they've both come, his and Eddie's semen mixed and splashed up Waylon's chest, Eddie bends his head and licks it off, swirling his tongue through the mess, making Waylon squirm. He kisses him after, tasting them on his tongue, sharp and a little sweet.  
  
It's past lunch when they finish, and Waylon groans at the way time is racing.  
  
"The guards said we had to meet Dr. Lin at 1, I think," he says, voice muffles under the blankets.  
  
"Let's just skip it. What are they going to do?" Eddie grumbles into a pillow.  
  
Waylon sticks his bare leg out from under the blanket, kicking it in the air, showing off the ankle monitor. "Last time I almost missed an appointment they gave me a shock. Like a sadistic alarm clock."  
  
Eddie glowers at his ankle and snorts. "How are we going to get these off?"  
  
Waylon pulls his leg back into the warmth, tucking his cold toes against Eddie's calves. Contemplatively, he answers, "The signals could be intercepted. We'll still have issues with taking them off without triggering them, but at least we could count on not getting zapped remotely."  
  
Eddie leans up on an elbow, studying him. "How do you know so much about these things, Darling?  
  
"I, um," Waylon swallows. "I was a software engineer, before they... locked me up." He wriggles away from Eddie's warmth and crawls from the bed, snatching up some new dry clothes and pulling them on.   
  
The other man doesn't seem suspicious about his departure; he lounges minutes longer, only dragging himself from the blankets when the clock reads 5 til. Waylon splits an orange and a muffin for them to share to replace their missed lunch as Eddie dresses. Eddie smirks as he takes them. "Such a good wife," he says, almost playfully. Waylon flushes and hides his face in his half of the muffin.  
  
The halls are empty still. Downstairs, there are more patients in the common room, watching the television. There are more patients than usual gathered in the library, and one of the two guards in the room is lingering nervously near the door. Waylon leads Eddie to the corridor containing Dr. Lin's office, deserted except for three security guards gathered near the door, among them the security head. He's the first to see them coming, glowering. The other two guards space out as they approach, giving Eddie assessing looks. He pretends to ignore them, but it's clear he's uncomfortable from how tightly he's pressed himself to Waylon's back.   
  
Dr. Lin is standing just inside the door. Her grooming is still meticulous, but she's unsettled, nervous.  
  
"Mr. Gluskin is first," the guard says. "A security presence will remain in the room with you at all times. You," he nods at Waylon. "Can remain in his sightline outside the window. Is that acceptable?"  
  
Waylon gulps and nods.  
  
Eddie grips his hand, glancing down the hallway toward the other patients, before he follows Dr. Lin in. "Don't move from this spot."  
  
"I won't."  
  
The door closes behind them. All three security remembers space themselves around the room inside. Waylon watches Eddie watching him through the glass. Their mouths move, but he can't hear what they're saying. In fact, he's not really sure what they would intend to discuss. More psychological tests, he assumes. He wonders when they'll decide they need to take Eddie upstairs and run him through their machines again. He's not looking forward to that.  
  
Waylon perks when Eddie's eyes suddenly snap away from his, settling on Dr. Lin. He looks confused. Then offended. Waylon looks quickly to the doctor. She's looking at him curiously.   
  
Understanding rushes through him, settling cold in his belly. When Clark and Lin put him into Eddie's cell, they were giving him his wife, and would have been unsurprised if Eddie killed him. Now, through his own lie, he's the husband and sexual partner, under no apparent threat. He's discussed none of it with staff, and he still doesn't think it's likely that they managed to eavesdrop on every quiet murmured conversation where they laid out the rules for this new scenario.  
  
Dr. Lin doesn't know Waylon told Eddie they're really married. What if she blows it? It would be so easy for her to lay out the timeline, to introduce doubt. To tell him what Waylon was really doing in Mount Massive.  
  
No, he tries to reason with himself, despite his turmoil at seeing Eddie looking increasingly upset, Dr. Lin trying to placate him. No, she's used to playing into Eddie's delusions; she wouldn't challenge the scenario he believes, because so far it's been his own invention. They wouldn't play along with the wife scenario and suddenly challenge him on the husband one.  
  
Unless they're still pushing him, the little voice in Waylon's head mutters.  
  
He wraps his arms around himself and tries to swallow down a panic attack he feels looming.   
  
It's a long fifty minutes.  
  
Waylon can tell the meeting is ending when the guards start to shift on their feet, and Eddie grabs the arms of the chair and leans forward as the doctor speaks her last words. She rises first and pushes the door open.  
  
Waylon watches Eddie carefully as he strides out, turning those bright eyes to his. Waylon's legs feel wobbly when he sees the affection in them. It's coupled with indignation and a touch of confusion. He can't let himself worry too much about it, because the guards are already gesturing him away towards the door to the office. "Your turn."  
  
Eddie settles himself in the same position Waylon had been in, though his height puts his head level with the top of the window, and he makes an intimidating silhouette outside the glass. The three guards remain in the hall as Dr. Lin closes the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone.  
  
"No guards?" he quips as he walks to the chair.   
  
She gives him a bland look. "We've been alone together plenty of times, Mr. Park. They know you're not a threat. Eddie is a much bigger concern." She moves to her desk and settles herself. Waylon notices for the first time that she's not wearing heels, but flat, practical sneakers. It's so out of character for her, he's not sure how he missed it.  
  
"So. You've been busy." She says, flipping through the notes on the table.  
  
"What did you tell him?"  
  
"I was going to ask you the same question," she says coolly. "You've been holding out on us, Waylon."  
  
He bites his lip, silent. Her expression is knowing as she studies him.  
  
"First," she says, "Let's get the obvious out of the way. They found the medical supplies you stole when they were turning over your room. Pillowcase, really?"  
  
"I didn't have a lot of time," he says defensively. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have tried something similar in my situation."  
  
Dr. Lin shrugs. She's more composed than he remembers her, particularly from their first meeting, where she'd tried so hard to play the villain until her hotheadedness got the better of her. This version of her just looks like she's going through the motions. Perhaps it's her way of protecting herself. "It doesn't matter either way. Disciplinary action will be decided by Dr. Clark when she returns."  
  
"She meeting with Murkoff again?" he asks. Overseeing the introduction of the new security force, he thinks.  
  
She cuts her eyes to him briefly and looks down again. "Something like that."   
  
"Is it that you aren't allowed to discipline us," he asks, knowing he's pulling the tiger's tail. "Or that you're afraid to?"  
  
"Discipline in our normal setting is mostly about restricting recreational privileges. I don't think that's going to cut it with you."  
  
"How have you been disciplining the others?" he presses, thinking of the man he had seen in the medical wing, fighting them off. "When they act out."  
  
She shakes her head in response, still closed off, unreadable. "We're not here to discuss those issues. I'd like to focus on you. Particularly, you and Eddie." She lays her pen on the desk, her brightly colored fingernails tapping against the plastic.  
  
He swallows hard.  
  
"Let me see if I have this straight. He knows you're a man. You're having sex, which you don't seem to be entirely unhappy about. And you're married to him; I didn't want to give anything away by asking too many questions, but he seems to think this is a relationship that was in place long before he came to Mount Massive. But, of course," she folds her hands in front of her. "He still doesn't know you worked for Murkoff."  
  
"You didn't tell him," he gasps. He cuts his eyes to Eddie, stationed outside the glass flanked by guards, face a mask of worry. "Please tell me you didn't tell him."  
  
"Of course not." She sits back in her chair, the leather squeaking against the nylon of her skirt. He breathes deep, drinking in the love he can still see on Eddie's face. On his _husband's_ face.  
  
"It's curious though," she continues. "I wasn't particularly surprised to find out he was interested in you sexually. Dr. Clark had that theory for awhile, I should have trusted her judgement. But the conflict arises from the fact that he was always demonstrably homophobic." He wrinkles his nose at her. "A self-hating closeted homosexual. So I find it suspicious that the delusion of marriage survived his epiphany about your gender. In fact, he seems particularly enlightened about a number of things."  
  
"Because I told him he didn't have to be ashamed of it," he bites back.   
  
" _You_ told him you were his husband," she answers, shifting the subject. "You lied to him."  
  
He bites down hard on his lower lip. His hands are on his knees, squeezing at the flesh there, digging in his thumbs. "It's nothing worse than what you've done to him."  
  
"No, but then, we're the evil corporation," she says with a self-mocking half smile. "We're expected to."   
  
She leans forward, planting her elbows on her desk. He looks at her pretty face framed by her dark hair. She's more than a small, uncertain woman. She has the power to ruin him. "Are you afraid that he'll hurt you if he discovers your lie?"  
  
In more ways than one, he doesn't say, keeping his mouth closed and expression wide eyed, letting her think his fear is of physical pain and death. He doesn't need to let her know how far he's truly fallen, how close to madness he truly is, wanting the love of this monster more than anything.  
  
"You should have told us about it. We would have been more careful about our terminology, helped reenforce the delusion. It's been keeping him miraculously compliant, we wouldn't have challenged you on it." He won't tell her about the guilt. He won't tell her how he's come to care so much about him.  
  
The expression on her face is something approaching sympathy as she shifts her notes. She pulls out a photo.  
  
Waylon recognizes it, even at a distance and with the picture angled carefully away from the window where Eddie is standing and studying them. He recognizes it, because it's the picture he kept tucked into the corner of his computer screen while he worked at Murkoff. A photograph they'd had taken during a holiday he can't really remember anymore. Of him, his wife, and his two boys.  
  
There's a buzzing in his ears. He imagines it's the cells in his blood, vibrating all at once in horror, and panic, and guilt. The last time he'd seen their faces was in their snuff film. It feels like eons ago.  
  
"We know the other men are talking," she's saying slowly and carefully, fingering the corners of the photograph. Her voice is almost pleading, lacking the kind of malice and true threat that Dr. Clark would give it. "It will not get the result that any of you want. I could show this to Eddie. Dr. Clark and Murkoff would be excited to see what happens, even if it means both of your deaths. But I won't, if you keep us informed."  
  
"I don't know anything," he says automatically, his whole body cold. He feels like he's made of cured clay, like he's speaking from deep inside a body that has changed form into something immalleable and brittle. "They were wary of me before, and they're afraid of Eddie now. They don't talk to me."  
  
"You'll hear things," she insists as she tucks the photo away into one of the desk drawers and locks it. "If the patients get violent, we can't protect them from Murkoff, just like with Eddie. The reason he's not being dissected right now is because you reined him in. You saved him! We're just asking the same for the others. You want to help them, don't you? You're sane, saner than most of them anyway, you can be a voice of reason."  
  
It's such an absurd thing to ask of him. But then Waylon recalls how he was when he was first brought here, trying to lay low and play along with them, biding his time. Giving the impression that he was reasonable, when he's entirely _not_.  
  
She continues, shuffling at her papers. "In the mean time, we'll try to make things a little easier on you, so you can focus on collecting information. For one, I've asked security to place Eddie in a different room at lights out, so you can get some undisturbed slee-"  
  
"No," he says, the word bubbling up out of him before the thought of protest is fully formed. Because, of course, no. No, it's not acceptable.  
  
She cocks her head and her eyebrow, frowning. "Are you afraid he'll hurt you if you agree to it? He's stable enough that I think it would be safe to separate the two of you for periods of time. He's unlikely to react violently." She pauses for a long time, assessing him. "Don't you WANT to be separate from him, Waylon?"  
  
He grinds his teeth together. He can't say it. He doesn't need to.  
  
She shakes her head in bewilderment. "I... guess that explains some things." She looks down at her desk and goes quiet for a long time, shuffling her papers, jotting down notes, deep in thought. Waylon vibrates in his seat, face flushed. He's angry, at her, but mostly at himself. He knows he shouldn't want this. A sane man wouldn't want this.  
  
She brushes hair over one ear and looks up. "Waylon... I think you're suffering from a form of Stockholm Syndrome."  
  
He feels breathless. He clenches his hands against his legs. "If I were, whose fault would that be?"  
  
"We are trying to help you, but we can only do so when you're useful. You need to keep in mind what you really care about. Think about how you felt, how you still feel, for your family. Let that remind you of how a relationship is supposed to feel. Not like this. You don't owe him anything."  
  
"My family's dead," he growls, pinching his eyes shut and tucking his chin into his chest, unable to look at her, at the sincerity in her eyes. "They took everything from me. I have _nothing_. Except for _him_." He rolls his eyes up and peers at her from under his eyebrows, teeth bared. " _He_ owes _me_. _You_ owe me. You won't take him."  
  
She's shrunk back in her chair, shoulders squared, trying to look bigger than she is. Her long feminine fingers grip the edge of the desk. Her eyes are wide. "Waylon..." she says slowly. He doesn't hear her.  
  
They want to take Eddie. They want to ruin him, ruin what they have together. He is static. Inside of him is a ball of dark, black fire. The monster in him, the twisted thing, the thing that has become more of himself than what he used to be. _The Bride_. It opens his mouth.  
  
He's on the edge of his seat, pressing his fingers to the glossy varnished wood of her desk. He doesn't remember moving.  
  
"If I get out of here," he hears himself say. "I will burn Murkoff. I will find them, every last one of them. I will find Clark, and I will find _you_. And I will pull you apart. The same way that I pulled apart that guard when he kicked my husband in the face."  
  
She's shaking. He sees himself reflected in her wide shining eyes. A man with blood and an unnatural light in his dark eyes. A man who had come to them skinny, trembling, broken, who now sits unmoving before her, body filled out with lean muscle. Threatening her. Threatening all of them.   
  
It's absurd, he thinks, but he's suddenly so calm. So calm. It feels right.  
  
He sees her eyes flicker down to his hands. His fingertips are indenting the wood on the desk.  
  
"I thought you were different," she says, her voice weak. "You were supposed to be different."  
  
"I clawed my way out of the same shithole they did, Dr. Lin. Then you threw me in a cell with one of the monsters who hunted me, beat me, strangled me. Who might have maimed and raped me." Waylon shows her all of his teeth, but not in a smile. "What did you fucking _think_ would happen?!"  
  
The door clicks open, and they both twist toward it. The lead guard stands there, hand on his taser, face full of worry and deeply controlled aggression. "Is everything alright?"  
  
Waylon pushes slowly back into his chair, collecting himself. The shapes of his fingers in the wood of the desk gleam at him. Dr. Lin stands abruptly. "I need to go upstairs. Immediately."  
  
Stupid, Waylon thinks, grimacing internally. All of that effort, playing along with them, and he blows it on this small, nervous woman.   
  
She scoops her stack of files into her arms and almost stumbles from the room in her effort to escape. Waylon glances quickly over her desk for her tablet, hoping at least some good will come out of this disaster of a meeting, but the lead guard is urging him from the room before he finds anything.    
  
The office door is quickly locked, and then Dr. Lin flees with the three guards around her, making long strides to keep pace. He hears her murmur quietly to them, "Cancel my other appointments." They ask her again if everything is alright. He can't make out the answer.  
  
He wonders how long he'll have until they send people for him.  
  
Suddenly Eddie is there, his big arms folding around him. It takes Waylon a moment to figure out that it's a hug.  
  
"That may have been one of the most miserable hours of my life, Darling," Eddie huffs into Waylon's hair, running his fingers through it gently, tucking tufts of it into place.  
  
Waylon shudders, and softens in increments, mumbling into Eddie's chest. "I think I messed up."  
  
Eddie pauses in his grooming. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I threatened her."  
  
Eddie pulls away slightly, frowning down at him. It's adorable on his face, the slight confusion, the pinch of his mouth. "Now why would you go and do something like that?"  
  
"She... She wanted to separate us," he says honestly.  
  
His husband bristles, a dark gleam passing through his eyes, lips tugging apart against his white teeth. It reminds Waylon of his own expression, reflected in her eyes.  
  
"They'll punish us." Waylon looks up at Eddie through his lashes. "I'm sorry. I just reacted. I wasn't thinking."  
  
Eddie huffs a sigh. "I can't blame you. I might have done the same." He wraps his arms around him again, squeezing just shy of too tight. "Whatever the consequences are, we'll face them together."  
  
Waylon closes his eyes in Eddie's embrace, letting out a contented hum. They stand that way for a long time in the empty hall, drinking in the warmth of each other.  
  
At last, Eddie says. "That woman is not so inflammatory as the one in charge, but I admit, she's her own kind of difficult. I almost lost my temper as well."  
  
Waylon huffs, thinking of what he observed through the window; Eddie had seemed confused, not angry. "What did she say to you?"  
  
"Well," he says with a humorless laugh, straightening. "She didn't seem to believe that we were married."  
  
Waylon flushes. Had she lied to him? "What?"  
  
"She kept asking questions. About when and how. I tried to explain that my memory is still hazy and that she should just ask you. How she interpreted that as needing to split us up is beyond me." The man sneers, tugging his clothes into order and checking his hair in the reflection of the dark office window.  
  
Waylon lets out a breath.   
  
Eddie bends and kisses him gently on the forehead. "Don't fret, dear. I know it's distressing that I don't remember the details. But I feel it when I look at you. I know who you are."


	34. Chapter 34

A calm washes over him.  
  
Waylon convinces Eddie, after a brief argument, to stay with him in the common room and watch television. In part, he wants to expose the other patients to Eddie on his best behavior, in the hopes that they will overcome their distrust. But mostly he wants to be around people in case they don't wait until night to come for him. He doesn't really think it would stop them, but he can try.  
  
Knowing that he's just spilled the truth about what happened to the guard in the hall upstairs makes him numb. He had been able to pretend, before, at least around the staff, that he was not like the other patients. That was the last barrier between the truth and the lie.  
  
He thinks it's a little funny. Everyone had been so worried about what Eddie would do in this environment. And then _Waylon_ is the one who snapped.  
  
Eddie pulls two chairs away from the group a few feet before settling with his back to the wall, feet up on another empty chair. Waylon settles in under his arm, stretching his legs a little to mirror him, a magazine from a nearby shelf in his lap. Eddie looks grouchy for several minutes, until he realizes that the film on the screen is a romance, and then he wraps himself around Waylon and watches it intently, whispering some of the most romantic lines to him in a hushed voice. It's cheesy as fuck, but still makes Waylon feel warm and shivery inside; if he's going to be executed in the night, or worse, shipped off to some secret testing lab, it's not the worst way to spend his last day.  
  
The other patients give them wary looks for a long time, but eventually, slowly, they stop looking too long. When he and Eddie giggle along to a joke in the film, some of the others even join in.  
  
"Thank you," he whispers to Eddie as the credits roll. "I know you still don't think this is worthwhile, but I appreciate the effort." The man just smirks at him.  
  
It's approaching dinner time when Miles finds them. He strides into the common area from the direction of the cafeteria, crunching an apple, looking satisfied with himself and completely comfortable, despite being locked up in a mental institution owned by an evil corporation. Waylon suspects he's a guy used to rolling with the punches, adapting to any scenario he finds himself in and turning things for his own benefit. Eddie doesn't notice him at first, absorbed in the next film that the nervous attendant pushed into the machine. Waylon watches the reporter quietly, noting how much better he looks since they first met in the hospital room, how the flesh of his body has filled out with muscle, similar to his own. He still looks gray, like he's been tinted; Waylon's not sure if it's the effect of the microscopic machines loaded under his skin, or if the man really is a walking corpse.  
  
Miles catches sight of them and stops mid-stride, pivoting comically toward them, grinning manically. "Mis amigos!" A couple of the patients jump, then give him sour looks.  
  
Waylon squirms in his seat and eyes the pair of guards in the corner of the room, though he figures his lies about not being friendly with the other men are most likely irrelevant, now that the upstairs staff know the truth about him. Eddie, predictably, focuses his full ire on Miles.  
  
"What's on? Oh shit, is that You've Got Mail? This movie's cute as fuck." Miles babbles as he plops into the chair nearest Waylon, causing Eddie to shift uncomfortably in his direction. Waylon pulls up a leg and crosses it, so that his knee settles across Eddie's thighs, a subtle urging to control himself. Eddie grumbles unhappily.  
  
Miles throws an arm over the back of his chair, angling his body toward them, and scratches at his unshaven chin. "Bobby said he walked in on you guys having a snowball fight earlier and that's why you were sopping wet at breakfast. That's really adorable."  
  
Waylon grimaces, but notices the comment doesn't quite sound malicious. Eddie just sniffs and turns back to the movie.  
  
Miles leans close to them, giving a cool glance over his shoulder to make certain the guards aren't in earshot. "So the quick updates: no computer yet, Dennis is still freaking out and thinks both of you are evil now, BUT, I've got a lot of guys on board. Basically they're agreeing not to cause trouble until we figure out how we're gonna cause trouble." He takes another bite of his apple, wiping away the juice that dribbles down his chin.   
  
Waylon sighs deeply, considering his words. "Dennis was really nice to me when I arrived... I'm really _sorry_ ," he raises his eyebrows at Miles as he says it emphatically, angling his face so Eddie can't see. "...that he thinks we're bad guys."  
  
Miles snorts, clearly catching Waylon's hidden apologies. Waylon can only hope he actually delivers it. "It's wacky. He calls you the Bride and Groom."  
  
Waylon wiggles in his seat, and Eddie coughs, face flushing. Miles watches their reactions with inquisitive eyes. "You really don't know what's up with that?"  
  
"No, we have no idea why he thinks of us as some kind of... demonic married couple," Eddie scoffs.  
  
"Hey now, no one said _demons_ were involved-"  
  
The television volume climbs suddenly. The three of them look over at the patient who is glaring at them pointedly as he turns up the sound. Miles raises his hands, "Sorry!" Waylon grabs Eddie's thigh before he can even twitch in the direction of the man.  
  
Eddie makes an unhappy noise. "Can we return to the room now, Darling? I promise, the company will be much improved..." Miles gives him an offended look. He opens his mouth to reply.  
  
The elevator dings.  
  
The next few moments move at normal speed, with no particular importance. For he and Eddie, anyway. Waylon imagines later that they must have felt like ages for Miles Upshur.  
  
The doors open, and a guard steps out. Followed by a new patient, a stocky, twitchy man. Waylon recognizes him from the cells upstairs, only just yesterday. A new release then. He makes a note of him; just because Eddie has recovered so well doesn't mean everyone who they're passing downstairs will.   
  
Then another man steps out behind him. Another dangerous patient. Then another.  
  
Last from the door, ducking his head low to clear it, is the massive man Waylon had recognized from the last cell upstairs. He's bald and heavily scarred on his face; two straight, crisp lines run from the corners of his frowning mouth along either cheek, as if something had cut into his flesh there. His nose is heavily bandaged, as well as his neck and wrists. His body is massive and thick, clothes that are probably even larger than Eddie's stretched taut over his hulking biceps and heavy belly. Overweight, but well muscled, the way a wrestler's body might be. The expression on his face is anguished, but his body posture is grim acceptance, trudging from the elevator with his eyes to the floor, as if he's not truly present at all.   
  
He's remembering what he's done, Waylon suspects. Trapped in the past. If his attack on Jeremy Blair was anything to go by, whoever this man was had most likely hurt some people in Mount Massive.   
  
"Chris Walker," comes Miles shaky voice. When Waylon looks up, he sees the reporter has stood, body rigid as he stumbles backward toward Waylon. He moves quickly, breath shuddering out of him, almost falling over his and Eddie's legs as he moves backward away from the heavy man who the guards are ushering through. Eddie catches him by the back of his shirt before he lands on their legs, holding him up as Miles stumbles across their legs, and then letting him drop to the floor beside his chair. Miles scoots back and cleaves himself to the wall between Eddie's chair and a bookcase.  
  
Waylon recognizes it. The same reaction he'd had when they showed him Eddie Gluskin had survived Mount Massive.  
  
"Miles," he says, dropping his feet from the chair and leaning over Eddie to get a look at the man, to Eddie's dismay.   
  
"He died. I saw him die. I saw him die." Miles is muttering nearly under his breath, whole body shaking, skin gleaming with sweat. In seconds he's an age away from the confident man Waylon's grown used to, reduced to a broken human, frozen with fear. Waylon can see a haze forming around his belly.  
  
The whole incident took seconds. The big man, Chris Walker, doesn't even notice, already out of the room by that point with the last of the security personnel.   
  
Waylon hops up over Eddie's legs where they're still resting on the chair, dropping to his knees in front of Miles, who looks through him with wide-eyed terror. He holds his hands out over Miles' belly, a reflex, as if there was anything he could do to stop the Walrider if it wanted to act. "Miles, keep it together. The others will see. They'll see."  
  
Eddie sees. He's swiveled in his seat to glower down disapprovingly at the two of them, but his expression morphs when he sees the faint cloud. He goes still. "What on earth..."  
  
"He's DEAD, I saw him DIE," Miles hisses in an emphatic whisper.   
  
Waylon cuts a quick glance to Eddie. "I saw people die too, but then they were here, alive. The nanotech kept them alive, the same way they're doing to you." Miles is already shaking his head, his eyes pinching closed as he rubs his wet, rough cheeks.  
  
"You don't understand, Waylon. He was _ripped apart_. The Walrider turned him into _hamburger_ , right in front of me."   
  
Waylon reaches out to grip the man's arm, trying to calm him, but inside, he chills.  
  
He had been astonished enough that Eddie survived, and the man had been left largely intact. Waylon hasn't given much thought to that moment in awhile; he never would have known the real Eddie Gluskin if he had really died there, never would have known what he missed, and the thought sits ill with him. He had been something approaching grateful to the nanotech, for healing them, for bringing Eddie back.  
  
But if it also brought back a man who was killed like that... If it COULD bring back a man who was killed like that... God, it must have been in their every cell, mapping their bodies. It could pull them apart and put them back together like a jigsaw puzzle.  
  
His mind flashes to the other men he'd seen torn apart. God damn it... Was he going to have to deal with a resurrected Jeremy fucking Blaire?  
  
"Darling," Eddie says, watching Miles' breakdown with disinterest, though his eyes track the dark cloud at his belly with caution. "What on earth is your crazy friend talking about?"  
  
Miles' glare could crack ice when he throws it at Eddie, but Waylon can't protest, seeing the faint haze of the Walrider disperse as the man is distracted. "You really don't remember ANY of the fucked up shit that happened in Mount Massive?"  
  
Waylon squeezes his arm, hard. Miles' eyes dart to his, widening, then narrowing.  
  
"Bits and pieces..." Eddie says thoughtfully. "They were torturing us, and then there was a riot that went south..."  
  
Eddie is silent for a long moment, contemplative. Waylon squeezes Miles' arm again, pursing his lips. Miles wobbles his shoulders a little in a gesture he thinks means, how was I supposed to know?  
  
"Isn't that what happened?" Eddie says, looking at Waylon.  
  
Waylon sighs heavily, releasing Miles' arm and sitting back on his heels. "Something like that."  
  
The other patients are staring at them, and the guards look like they're reluctant to interfere, but just about to force themselves to, so Waylon and Eddie wrangle Miles upstairs and put him in his room, which is in the same hall as theirs. Eddie grumbles about it, but is compliant, growing more tolerant of the weirdly likable man. Waylon is glad for it, though he secretly hopes he doesn't start to like the guy TOO much. He doesn't know exactly how he'd react to something like that, but he knows it won't be good.  
  
"Don't leave, please," Miles says as they're about to do just that. He's sitting on his bed, slumped down with his elbows on his knees. "What if he comes up here? What if he remembers me? God, he HUNTED me..."  
  
The words, the posture of his body, they make Waylon pause. It's so familiar, like looking in a mirror, with a reflection that's just a touch off. He turns to Eddie, standing halfway out the door already, expression pleading. The man lets out a groan and rolls his eyes.  
  
"Fine, dear. But I'm waiting outside. I can't listen to this sniveling." He pulls the door most of the way shut behind him. "Please don't take too long." Waylon's mouth almost drops open; he had hoped they would stay, but never imagined Eddie would actually allow him to be alone with the other man. Either he really does trust him, or he's confident that Miles is no longer a threat. Either way, he doesn't want to look the horse in the mouth.  
  
Miles huffs under his breath as Waylon moves to sit beside him. "Please don't be offended, Waylon, but your 'husband' is a prick." He throws up quotation fingers around the word, emphasizing that yes, he knows.  
  
Waylon regards him carefully, glances at the door, then leans in close. As quietly as he can, he whispers, "Eddie tried to kill me in Mount Massive."  
  
Miles sniffs. "I knew it. Like, seriously man, are you okay? Do you need help getting out of this?"  
  
He's already shaking his head. "No. No. I... I care about him. The... the husband thing, it was me, I... implied it, and it stuck."  
  
The other man's eyes are wide with disbelief. "Wow, you're really not okay. Up here." He points to his head. "You're really fucking him too? Wow."  
  
Waylon hushes him, and in quiet tones, he quickly relates the story: how he'd encountered Eddie in Mount Massive, how he'd pursued him, what he'd nearly done to him, how Waylon had killed him. He keeps glancing at the door, worried that Eddie will hear, but he catches glances of him pacing the hall, peering in at them jealously, but miraculously, allowing them privacy. Waylon hurries through the rest even faster, about how he'd arrived there, having to play the wife, and then, how his lie had gotten him close to the man.  
  
"He's so different. Either the nanotech is helping, or whatever they're giving him is working," Waylon says. "I saw Chris Walker inside. He doesn't seem like the same person. Maybe he's not a threat at all."  
  
"So telling me your whole horror story was a roundabout way of trying to comfort me," Miles says flatly. "I guess I'm flattered. So the moral of the story is, I should have sex with Chris Walker?"  
  
"No," Waylon sighs, rolling his eyes. "Just... there's no point in getting messed up over it until you know for sure."  
  
"If only panic attacks responded to logic," Miles grumbles, though he's nodding as well. He sucks in deep, slow breaths to calm his racing heart. "Waylon... Why are you sleeping with him? After what he tried to do to you."  
  
Waylon flushes, avoiding his gaze by studying Miles' small room, his small stack of photography books and magazines pilfered from the library, the empty water bottles on the floor. "I... I was... It's complicated."  
  
"Are you even gay? Or were you, before?"  
  
"I was... I AM bisexual. I slept with men." He swallows hard. "I... Some of what he did and said to me... I liked it."  
  
Miles eyebrows pop up. "Look, I'm no stranger to kink, but that can't be healthy."  
  
"It's not," Waylon shakes his head, pressing his eyes closed and gearing up to argue his case. "I know it's not."  
  
"I guess I get it," Miles says, to Waylon's surprise. "What's even normal, anymore, after you've been through shit like that." He looks calmer now, almost contemplative.  
  
"Waylon," he says slowly. "What was it like for you, in there?"  
  
Waylon stares at the floor for a long time. Relating the sequence of events is one thing. He doesn't know how to talk about the rest. He doesn't know how to talk about what he saw, or the flashing of the Engine behind his eyes. "I... I don't even think of it as fear. I was... beyond afraid."  
  
Miles is nodding. "Like you keep moving but you're not sure why. You're not even making the decision, it's like, something else is reaching out and pushing you."  
  
Waylon's breath catches. "At one point I wished... that I really had gone insane when they showed me the Engine. Because then I wouldn't have to be... _present_."  
  
The reporter looks at him with bright eyes, and Waylon really sees him. A man, like him, innocent and whole and healthy before. A man taken apart and put back together in Mount Massive, with the pieces in all the wrong places. Waylon had gone back and forth about trusting him, but now he was certain. They were the same.  
  
"Did you have family, on the outside?" Waylon asks.  
  
After a long moment, Miles shakes his head. In a quiet voice, he answers, "No one that'll miss me."  
  
They sit in quiet a few minutes longer, until Eddie pokes his head in and looks at them disapprovingly. Miles stands abruptly, rubs his face, squares his shoulders, then flattens his mouth in something resembling a smile. "It's almost dinnertime. You guys wanna eat?"  
  



	35. Chapter 35

They part ways in the hall with the agreement to meet up again in twenty minutes, which Eddie expresses his unhappiness about with a grunt and grim expression. Miles tells them he wants to find Dennis and some of the other guys and ask them to keep an eye on Chris Walker and the other new patients, not that he thinks they'll need a reminder to do so. Waylon and Eddie head back to their room, where Waylon slips into his mostly dry sweater, trying to chase off the lingering chill of their conversation.  
  
"Nice chat?" Eddie asks sardonically as he pulls on his own sweater.  
  
Waylon regards him, his bitter expression, and then nods slowly. "I trust him. He..." Waylon swallows against the lump in his throat. "He wasn't supposed to be in there. You know? He wasn't like... the rest of us. He was there because he... was trying to do something right. Trying to help."  
  
"Trying to get a story, no doubt," Eddie answers with a sniff. "Reporters in my experience rarely visit insane asylums for altruistic reasons."  
  
"You've talked to a lot of reporters?"  
  
Eddie shrugs. "People are always eager to listen to gruesome stories of mayhem and murder. There were reporters visiting patients daily in every hospital and prison I stayed at. It was almost a relief when I got to Mount Massive and there were none. I suppose it should have been a red flag."  
  
Waylon nods in understanding, thinking of the sensationalist news stories, the documentaries and podcasts dissecting the crimes of people just like Eddie. At the heart of most of them were boys who lost some fundamental element of their childhood, sprouting monsters instead of men. "I guess you're right... But, if he'd gotten the story out, it would have saved us. Doesn't that count for something?"  
  
I helped to hurt you, he doesn't say, but then I tried to fix it. I failed, but I tried. Doesn't it count for something?  
  
"Hardly," Eddie says, opening the door and stepping away from him into the hall. "Hell is full of try-hards and meant-wells."  
  
Waylon bites his lip grimly, and follows him.  
  
Miles is waiting for them at the end of the hall, already looking better and more collected. He doesn't talk much as they head down to the cafeteria, eyes darting around as if expecting to see the hulking shape of Chris Walker lurking in every corner. When they arrive, they find dinner is similar to the last; potatoes, mixed vegetables, and some kind of cheap salisbury steak that reminds Waylon of elementary school. As the three of them settle at one of the tables with full trays, Miles shakes himself out of his preoccupations to share his theory on the food.  
  
"This is a fancy facility, right? Then suddenly Murkoff calls up and they get us dumped on them. Other patients transfer out. But they've still got all this food for the rich people, so they use it up. Their supply runs out, now they're ordering the cheap stuff, because what are we gonna do about it?"  
  
"The baked stuff is still good," Waylon says, peeling apart his heel of bread.  
  
"Flour keeps longer than fancy meat."  
  
"As stimulating as this discussion is," Eddie cuts in, sneering at the food, and at Miles sitting across from him. "Perhaps we can focus on the plan?"  
  
"What's to discuss?" Miles says. "We've got nothing without getting Waylon here wired up."  
  
"The deadline might have moved," Eddie says, eyes darting to Waylon. "Waylon made a threat towards a doctor today. We're unsure how long that will go unpunished."  
  
Waylon shifts in his seat uncomfortably as Miles hikes up his eyebrows. "Really, Park? What happened to keeping our chill?"  
  
Eddie bristles at Mile's outburst. "Watch your mouth." Waylon doesn't have an excuse to offer, so he doesn't answer.   
  
Miles huffs and rolls his eyes.. "Okay, so, does this need to happen tonight, then? Because if they're coming for you..."  
  
"They lock us in at 10. " Waylon says, thinking aloud. "They take people around 4am. If everyone's locked up... they probably don't keep a lot of staff on the residential and recreational floors."  
  
"But they check that we're all in our rooms. And they have security cameras in the halls." Miles gestures at the cafeteria camera in the corner, a glossy black bulb.  
  
A movement out of the corner of Waylon's eye makes him jump. Eddie's arm leaps up around his shoulders in an instant. Dennis recoils from where he'd come to stand near their table, nearly dropping his tray.  
  
"Whoa, hey," Miles says, putting on his friendly face. Waylon looks at him apologetically, though Dennis seems unconvinced. "Are you gonna sit with us, pal?"  
  
After a long moment, Dennis slides into the open seat next to Miles, eyes still wide and fixated on Eddie before he drops them to his tray and holds them there, still and trembling. Miles pats him on the shoulder, doing his best to open his body language and appear relaxed and friendly, though it can't be what he feels.   
  
Finally, Dennis looks up at Waylon, and slowly nods. Waylon can feel Eddie's gaze prickling him.  
  
"Miles told me... what you've been sayin'," Dennis says, a long slow drawl as he works out the best way to put it. It's accompanied by a look at Waylon that makes it clear: apology received. "I just, uh... I wanted to say... sorry. For uh, actin' like I been."  
  
Eddie snorts. Waylon pushes his elbow gently into Eddie's side, silently scolding him, but keeps his attention on Dennis. "It's okay. We understand. I'm sorry we frightened you."  
  
Dennis nods slowly, throat working as he stares openly at Waylon's arm pushing at Eddie, at Eddie's arm draped over Waylon's shoulder. Waylon has to struggle not to squirm under the scrutinization. The man looks bewildered, but less like he's going to bolt across the room at any moment.   
  
"There's a computer," Dennis says suddenly, and Waylon's ears perk.  
  
Miles scoots closer, eager. "What? We've got one?"  
  
Dennis shakes his head. "Nah, I mean... Y'know the supply guy, Mr. Boer? He was givin' some of the guys unapproved items, y'know, and he had this big fight with Dr. Clark the day before you came down." He gestures at Miles. "Got himself fired. So one o' the guys went over and peaked through the window and saw his laptop computer still there in his office."  
  
"Behind a locked door," Miles says dryly, deflating.  
  
"There's no security on that door, just a deadbolt," Waylon recalls, thinking quickly about his brief interaction with the man. "That's a modern laptop. A tablet or that brick in the med room would have been parts to work with, but with an actual functional computer..." He scoots to the edge of his seat, excitement growing. "We have to get it."  
  
Dennis shakes his head. "No way we'd break intah that room without someone noticin' us."  
  
"And if we got caught they'd zap us," Miles adds.  
  
Waylon sighs heavily, still trying to work out a plan and failing. Dennis and Miles look dejectedly at their plates. Eddie takes a drink of his water, eyebrows knit thoughtfully.   
  
"Darling," Eddie says suddenly. Dennis nearly falls off his seat at the sound of his voice. "When you suggested there was no security on this room you need to break into... How could you be sure?"  
  
"There's no sensors," Waylon answers, relying on his memory. "It's a common deadbolt, a sensor would have to be installed in or along the frame, I didn't see anything like that. Unlike the cells they were holding you in upstairs, which had more locking mechanics; they were most likely wired directly into the alarm system."   
  
"How about the doors on our room now?" Eddie asks.  
  
Waylon nods, quickly following his line of thinking. "No, there's no alarms on those either. They were designed for people who checked themselves in voluntarily, I bet under normal circumstances they didn't even lock them at night."  
  
"There's still the cameras," Miles interjects. "You think we can break out, get downstairs, break into the supply room, and hack into our ankle monitors before we all get zapped?"  
  
"Break the cameras," Waylon says.  
  
Miles rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to argue, but Waylon continues quickly. "You said that some guys have tried to break out on their own. So what if someone starts smashing cameras? If you pull the whole thing out from the wall, damage the electrical hookups...There's no way they'd get them repaired by tonight. We'd just need the units in the two common rooms taken out; they cover the elevators and halls."  
  
"The guys who act out like that get taken upstairs," Miles answers. "No one's gonna volunteer for that."  
  
"I will," Dennis says tiredly.  
  
Miles turns to him, flabbergasted. Waylon's thoughts grind to a halt. "Dennis..."  
  
The big man shrugs at their expressions. "Someone's gotta. None o' these guys would do it. But I been up there, and I..." He swallows hard, looking right at Waylon. "I don't think they got anythin' up there that scares me anymore."  
  
Waylon grimaces, nodding slowly. Eddie picks at his food with his fork, unimpressed. Miles swallows hard, looking at the man with new respect. "If we get the doors open and get out, we might not be able to come back for you..."  
  
Dennis pulls some folded papers from his pocket and discreetly presses them into Miles' hand. "Then you just get these to my sister and we'll call it square." Then he pushes himself up from the table. "I gotta talk to the other guys. What time should I do it?"  
  
Waylon gulps, trying to organize his thoughts. "As close as you can get before they lock us in. Get your guys to hang out somewhere else, draw the guards off, so they don't stop you halfway through. Someone should hold the elevator for you, but not look like they're doing it on purpose."  
  
"It's gotta look like you're on your own," Miles adds shakily. "Yell some crazy shit. Make it look like you just snapped."  
  
Dennis nods, looking between Waylon and Miles forlornly. "If I'm good for one thing, it's bustin' shit up." Then he looks directly at Eddie for a long second. Eddie meets his gaze, almost perplexed.  
  
Then Dennis pushes himself away from the table and wanders off between the tables.  
  
Miles huffs a long breath. "Jesus."  
  
Eddie rolls his eyes. "How grave. You'd think he was about to be marched in front of a firing squad."  
  
Waylon turns to Eddie with a sour look. "It's basically a suicide mission. He just volunteered for that, on the chance that it might help us get out. Please be nice?"  
  
Eddie frowns back, the familiar spark of anger percolating his dark eyes. "How many times are you going to ask me to be nice to people who we just met?" he says, a hint of snarl in his voice.   
  
Waylon cringes away, wide eyed, unsure where the sudden anger came from. Miles' eyes dart between the two of them as he shrinks into his potatoes. Waylon opens his mouth to continue the argument, but then catches himself, realizing it's not worth having. He HAS been pushing his luck with Eddie; everything's been going so well, he'd almost forgotten how lucky he was that the man was amenable to any of it.  
  
"I'm sorry, Eddie," Waylon says, adopting his puppy face, which clearly does a number on the man judging by how quickly his expression softens.   
  
Eddie sighs heavily and rolls his eyes again, but thankfully, the anger passes. "Quite alright, Darling, I know you're just trying to be polite. You know how my temper gets the better of me." He pops another bite of dinner into his mouth and glares at Miles. "So if I'm grasping the breadth of your plan... While the cameras are broken, we break down the doors?"  
  
Miles nods slowly, watching the large man carefully.   
  
"And how do we do that?" Eddie asks, quirking his head to the side.  
  
"I'm hoping that's where you come in," Waylon answers nervously. "We break down our door, let Miles out, then break down the supply door. Maybe with Miles' help. You said your strength was improved, right?"  
  
"I can lift a grown guy, I know that," Miles answers shakily, thoughtful. "But it's a bit different from busting down a steel framed door, yeah? And my, you know, _condition_ , it only acts up under certain circumstances."  
  
"I'm forced to admit the same," Eddie says distastefully. "It's been some time since I tested my own strength. I'm thrilled by your faith in me, Waylon, but I'm not certain it's well placed in this instance."  
  
Waylon scratches his head. "We can try to pick the lock... A deadbolt is tricky, but..."  
  
"I have an idea," Miles says slowly, looking increasingly nervous. His eyes keep flicking up over Waylon's shoulder. "It's completely batshit crazy."  
  
Waylon turns and looks. Alone at a table in the corner is the hulking form of Chris Walker, starring apathetically into his plate. Waylon looks back at Miles. "You're serious?"  
  
"Deadly," Miles huffs. "There's other guys I could talk to, but I mean, look at him. He's built like a bull. He's a sure thing."  
  
"That man looks like he's going to burst into tears at any moment," Eddie says, turning to observe the man as well. "Or drown himself in his gravy. Much less be prepared to execute a prison break."  
  
"This was my whole thing," Miles insists, running his hands through his short hair and squaring his shoulders. "Reporters talk to people. We convince people to trust us and give up all their deep dark secrets. I've talked people into much bigger things than this."  
  
Waylon arches an eyebrow. "Really?"  
  
"Well. Sort of," Miles says, hopping to his feet, tucking Dennis' paper into his pocket and collecting his tray. "If I don't get a chance to chat again, let's aim for 1 am, yeah? Late enough for them to relax, early enough to avoid the Gestapo. We only need one of us to get out to unlock the others."  
  
"If your friend fails to take out the cameras-" Eddie starts.  
  
"He won't fail." Then Miles walks away, clutching his tray so hard his knuckles are white.  
  
Waylon is suddenly wildly respectful of the man. He can't imagine doing the same thing in Miles' place, if he were seeing Eddie for the first time in this situation. He watches Miles wobble up to the man, speaking quietly. Chris Walker looks up slowly, almost as if his reaction is delayed. It reminds Waylon of the night they'd tossed him in with Eddie. He hopes he's not about to witness a repeat of that disaster.  
  
The big man's eyes widen in recognition, and then suddenly, he's pressing his busted face into his hands, and sobbing. Miles sits across from him and tentatively pats him on the shoulder. The man sobs louder.  
  
Eddie shifts uncomfortably. Waylon wanders if he's reminded of his own breakdown in the shower upstairs. Or if he's just being a dick again.  
  
"I don't know how happy I am with this plan," Eddie murmurs as he turns back to his nearly empty plate.   
  
"I think it's the best we've got. Other than just starting an all out riot and hoping things work themselves out in the chaos."  
  
Eddie nods slowly. "So, your large friend is planning to break the cameras. Your small friend is trying to charm a gorilla into breaking the doors. What shall we do to prepare?"  
  
Waylon huffs a deep breath. "We lay low. Stay around the largest group of people. Stay away from Dennis and Miles. Look like we're not colluding."  
  
Eddie makes a discontented noise, but doesn't argue. Waylon casts him a careful, nervous glance, wondering just how long he'll be able to keep the man reined in before he snaps.  
  
They stay in the cafeteria a good while longer than they need to, since most of the patients remain there long after the food is done, chatting and laughing. Waylon casts a glance over his shoulder once in awhile, checking on Miles. He's almost envious; the conversation seems to be going well, Miles open and friendly and almost relaxed, and Chris' face brightening in increments as he listens. He swears at one point that the man almost smiles.  
  
It turns out to be the ideal circumstances, because Dennis smashes the cameras just over an hour later. There is a ruckus as the guards in the room respond to their radios simultaneously. Later, Waylon will find out that Dennis broke an easel from the art room and used the end of it to smash the lower camera clean off the base. Then he took the elevator up and smashed the camera on the residential floors, all the while screaming about how Murkoff was watching him. It took half the guards on the floor to bring him down, before they dragged him upstairs, kicking and screaming.   
  
From their perspective in the cafeteria, though, the guards gather, clicking off their radios, and cast sharp eyes over the crowd. Then later, when men finally start making their way back across the bridge and Waylon and Eddie rise to join them, Waylon carefully eyes the shattered plastic bulbs that once housed the security cameras in the recreation common room, then again as they ascend to the residential floor and make their way to their room.   
  
"He did a good job," he murmurs to Eddie as they step inside their room. "The wiring's severed. They won't be able to just swap new ones in, the wiring will have to be pulled out of the wall and replaced. It'll take hours, when they get to it." When Eddie is silent in response, Waylon cocks his head and sighs. "Look, about earlier-"  
  
Then Eddie is kissing him.  
  
He kisses him roughly, almost desperately, pushing him back up against the door with a gentle thud. Waylon's dick is half hard in seconds from the rough treatment, and the slick, toothy slide of his husband's mouth on his. He groans and runs his hands down Eddie's chest, wondering what brought this on, wondering if they shouldn't do this, if they should spend the next hours in readiness.  
  
Then Eddie pulls away just enough to huff a hot breath over Waylon's mouth. "I want you to fuck me."


	36. Chapter 36

"I want you to fuck me."  
  
Waylon's dick goes from half hard to rigid in a breath, and he feels almost faint from the blood rushing to his groin. Eddie tries to push their mouths together again, but Waylon has to jerk away, "P-pardon?"  
  
Eddie almost growls, pressing the flats of his teeth against Waylon's jaw. "Do I have to repeat myself? What did I say about making me ask?"  
  
"B-but I... I don't understand, I thought-" Waylon stutters in confusion. God, his dick is _so_ on board, his balls already ache. But he can't even picture it. He'd never considered it, not even in the moment he pressed his finger there, and then Eddie... oh.  
  
"When you touched me, it felt good," Eddie mumbles, face warm where's pressing it against Waylon's cheek, hiding his expression. "I must have let you, before. I know you want to. I can feel it." He rubs his thigh against Waylon's erection for emphasis. Waylon groans.  
  
"W-we don't have to rush," Waylon says. "I mean, you should be sure you're ready."  
  
Eddie pulls back, and for a moment, Waylon thinks he's looking at the Groom. The man looms over him, chin tilted nearly to his chest to look down at him as he presses his body close to Waylon's, full of manic energy, eyes wide and distraught.   
  
"We're going to attempt to escape in a few hours," Eddie says, cupping Waylon's cheek. "And after that, we might not have an opportunity to lie together for a long time, whether we get out, or not. I don't have my memories of us back yet, so I want to make as many new ones as possible, while we can."  
  
Waylon shudders, torn in every direction at once. Eddie, saying such sweet things to him. Eddie, buying into his lies. He must have so much trust in him, to ask for this. Waylon has to say no. He has to say no. He opens his mouth.  
  
When has he ever been able to say no to Eddie, though?  
  
"If that's what you want," he breathes, pushing up on his toes to kiss him again.  
  
Outside, the snow has let up briefly, the sky outside dark and velvety. The moon hangs fat and milky white above the trees. They undress by the light of it, and Waylon runs his hands over Eddie's body, familiar with it now, the curves of muscle, the gnarls of scars, the faded bruises. Eddie lets him, passive in a way he hasn't been before, limbs trembling.  
  
"Why do you want this, so suddenly," Waylon asks. "I'm not going to stop, I promise. But I'd like to know."  
  
Eddie shakes his head, flushed, and answers simply, "I've always wanted it."  
  
Waylon pinches and kisses at Eddie's dark nipples, watching the nubs perk and pull up tight, feeling Eddie's cock jump between them. He imagines he can feel the heat of it on his own cock, also firm and pink and jutting obscenely below his belly. Eddie's arms twitch toward him, then pull back.  
  
"You can touch me," Waylon says. "You can touch me the same as before."  
  
Eddie looks confused, like he's not sure how that would work, but then he flexes his hands and moves them to Waylon's naked hips, gripping tight. "I thought..." he starts, but his throat sticks around the rest of the words, and he can't get them out.  
  
"Being on the bottom doesn't mean you can't be in charge. And vice versa." Waylon bites gently against Eddie's pectoral muscle, making him hiss. "You can take what you want from me. Use me for your pleasure. I belong to you."  
  
Eddie lets out a low moan and grips harder. After a long moment, he pushes Waylon toward the bed, until the backs of his thighs touch the mattress. Then he topples over, Eddie straddling him in one swift movement. Eddie drops his hand to Waylon's cock, giving it a thoughtful, hard stroke, before he freezes. He looks up at Waylon, suddenly, face shocked.  
  
"Waylon," he says seriously. "Does this make me a slut?"  
  
Waylon can't even laugh, with his dick in Eddie's fist and that word on Eddie's lips. "Maybe we both are," Waylon gasps.   
  
Eddie drops his dick and pushes himself up into kneeling, his muscular thighs straddling Waylon's narrow hips, exposing that dark warm gap between them. Waylon wants to bury his face there. Waylon was never much of a top, satisfied with sating that particular urge with women, but the idea of doing it with Eddie... Of Eddie letting, _asking_ him to...  
  
His cock jumps against his belly, strands of clear precome sticking to his belly. Eddie notices, and leans suddenly, pressing a hand against Waylon's shoulder and collarbone, pinning him to the bed. "Is your cock so eager to fuck, whore?" he snarls.  
  
"God yes, honey," Waylon gasps, the endearment slipping out easily. "I'm so hard for you."  
  
Eddie leans over him, pushing the air from his lungs with his weight as he stretches up to pull the lube from under the pillow. Waylon lies prone and pants, watching him turn it over in his hand, until he drops it gently on Waylon's belly.  
  
"I want you to do it," Eddie says, pushing up off of Waylon and rolling over against the headboard, thighs splayed slightly apart. Waylon catches the tube in his hand as he pops up and follows, carefully insinuating his small body between Eddie's knees. Eddie watches him intently, face flushed, lips twitching against his teeth, already breathing heavily. Eddie's cock has flopped heavy against his stomach, balls tight, and Waylon can see the dark dusting of pubic hair that follows the furrow between his legs, back to the dark, delicate furl of his asshole.  
  
For a moment, he feels a lurch in his chest, the guilt and shame over his lie hitting full force. This would most likely be Eddie's first time since... Waylon can't even think about it, starting to feel sick. Eddie thinks they've already done this, that this barrier has already been overcome, but in truth, he's giving Waylon something he hasn't earned and doesn't deserve. Waylon shouldn't be taking this from him on the basis of a lie. Truly, this is too far.  
  
"Don't make me ask again," Eddie demands, though his voice has pitched low and quiet, closer to a plea, as he senses Waylon's hesitation. He reaches out and grips Waylon's bicep, tugging him gently. Waylon goes, soul reluctant but body willing, until the tops of his thighs touch the bottoms of Eddie's, knees tucked around his buttocks. Close enough to kiss, and Eddie does, all teeth. "You can't deny me this."  
  
Waylon whimpers, whispering, "I... I know what this means for you. It might as well be the f-first... The first time..."  
  
"Then make me enjoy it," Eddie growls, biting at Waylon's throat, eyes pinched tightly shut. "I don't... I don't wanna fucking worry about it anymore, I don't wanna think about it. I just wanna be with you."  
  
Waylon feels like he's crumbled apart, helpless and wanton against the force that is Eddie Gluskin.  
  
He drops the lube on Eddie's stomach next to his cock, earning a confused noise. Then he flops to his belly between Eddie's legs and pushes his tongue against his hole.  
  
Eddie's body jerks like he's been electrified, the groan that claws up out of his chest guttural and wild as Waylon licks at the delicate skin. Waylon wraps his arm around his thighs and holds on as Eddie's body shudders and spasms above him, licking broad, firm stripes along the crack of his ass and perineum, stimulating the sensitive nerves there. The taste of him is bitter and masculine, the tight clench of his hole fluttering against the muscle of his tongue, making him salivate.   
  
Eddie's hand comes to rest in his hair, and when he feels a brush against his forehead, he realizes Eddie is using the other to cup his own balls, giving Waylon more access. More permission. When Waylon pulls away for a breath of cold air, he sees the man has twisted against the headboard, head thrown back to show the long line of his throat, adam's apple jumping with his gasps and grunts. The sounds he makes are vulnerable, thoughtless, purely animal, pulled from him by instinct.  
  
"What the fuck-" he gasps suddenly, after several minutes of Waylon rimming him, as if just recovering himself. His thighs start to shake against Waylon's palms. "What the fuck-"  
  
Waylon hums encouragingly against his skin, and Eddie loses his voice again. Waylon presses his open mouth around his hole and sucks, holding tight to the man's wriggling hips as Eddie shakes and moans, fingers tight in Waylon's hair. He points his tongue and presses inside the loosened folds, just a little, to where he feels the clenched muscle of his sphincter, tight and hot. He rubs his tongue messily against the velvet skin there, feeling the confused, seizing grip of it.  
  
Eddie wails. Waylon moans. Reasonable thought has abandoned them.  
  
Waylon grasps for the lubricant, keeping his mouth tight to Eddie's skin, rolling the cap off one handed. He pulls away and hitches himself up to his knees as he squeezes a generous helping onto this index and middle fingers. Eddie lifts his head to watch him, face red, sweat gleaming on his upper body. Waylon allows himself a moment to admire him, his quivering abdominals, the long lines of his obliques leading from his wide ribcage to his narrow hips, the spread of his pelvis welcoming him as his thighs hike up just a little higher to nestle at his sides, squeezing his ribs. He's like a god, glistening and beautiful. Waylon wants to worship him.  
  
Waylon presses a slick finger to his hole, slipping into the loosened folds to press at the tight muscle. "Bear down, like you're trying to push me out."  
  
The man looks at him, confused, but then his stomach flexes and Waylon feels the muscle shudder, and he presses, his finger slipping in easily to the second knuckle.  
  
"G-god-" Eddie stutters, squirming, planting his feet against the mattress to lever himself up, unsure if he wants to pull away from Waylon's finger, or push back onto it. Waylon takes hold of his massive cock and gives him a firm stroke from root to tip as his finger slips in farther, gripped tight in Eddie's hot, wet heat. He's worried for a moment that his fingers are too short, but then a careful rub reveals the firm, healthy bulb of Eddie's prostate.  
  
Eddie sobs, eyes clenched tightly closed, but Waylon can tell they are red rimmed and wet from more than sweat. He wants to kiss them, but isn't sure how Eddie will feel about his mouth after the rimming. The man's head lolls loosely on his neck, hands scratching at the headboard, almost animal. It reminds him worriedly of the asylum, of the dance of the Engine behind his eyelids.  
  
"Stay with me," Waylon says, almost as much to himself as Eddie. "Stay with me. Say my name."  
  
Eddie takes a long moment to answer, fisting his hands in the blankets. "Waylon," he gasps. "Waylon."  
  
"Eddie," Waylon answers breathlessly.  
  
"W-why is it like this?" Eddie stutters suddenly. "Why does it feel like this?"  
  
Waylon freezes in mid stroke. "I-is it too much?"  
  
Eddie opens his blood red and bright blue eyes and looks at him, gaze full of anguish and adoration. "It feels so good." Both of his hands grapple at Waylon's shoulders as his body heaves, thumbs pressing against his collarbone, shaking. "I don't understand why it feels so good."  
  
A sigh leaves Waylon's chest, relief flooding him. He smiles shakily. "Maybe God wants us to put our fingers up our butts?"  
  
Eddie's teeth flash in a grin and he huffs a single laugh, jostling Waylon's finger against his prostate. He groans and writhes again, knees working around Waylon's narrow shoulders as he kicks his heels against the sheets. "More."  
  
Almost trembling, Waylon obliges, taking up a slow rhythm of pumping Eddie's cock in one hand and slipping his finger through the soft muscle of his hole with the other. On one long, hard stroke of his cock, his pulls his finger out to the tip, wet and glistening in the cold air, then slips another snugly in alongside it. Eddie tenses and grunts, but his cock throbs, and Waylon thinks for a moment he might come right then, and save him from tumbling further into this mistake he's making. But then with a long groan, Eddie spreads his knees wider.  
  
"Put it in now, D-Darling."  
  
Waylon shakes his head. "Just a little more, I want to be sure-"  
  
"I won't last," Eddie gasps, rolling his head against the headboard. "I don't want to last, I want to finish, please, I can't-"  
  
"Yes, yes, okay," Waylon says, slipping his fingers carefully from Eddie's winking, reddened hole. His mind flashes to the box of condoms they'd been given upstairs, tucked in their bathroom cabinet. "Do you want me to use a condom? The mess can get... uncomfortable, after..."  
  
Eddie shakes his head. "Hhah, they're latex, I can't..."  
  
"Oh. Oh right," Waylon stutters in horror, suddenly remembering the moment in the control room of Mount Massive, seeing the blistering rash spread over Eddie's face through the monitors. "Fuck, I should've thrown those away."  
  
Eddie doesn't respond, just spreads his legs wider. Waylon's dick twitches, eager. In the same way he'd never let a man fuck him bareback before Eddie, he'd also never topped a man without a condom.   
  
Wanting every advantage he can get in this situation, he upturns the remainder of the lubricant on his own ready cock and slicks it on thick. He keeps his hand wrapped around the head of Eddie's prick, marveling for just a second at the size difference. He's never felt more grateful though for the modest size of his penis as he does in this moment, as he leans forward and presses the head against Eddie's underprepared hole. The heat of the slippery skin on his glans prompts another pulse of precome, and he gasps, freezing.  
  
Without warning, Eddie lifts himself up on his elbows and kisses him, licking into his mouth with a moan. Waylon almost surges forward on impulse, wondering if Eddie's forgotten where his mouth has been, until the man sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites it, licking at his teeth while Waylon pants open mouthed.  
  
"Filthy," Eddie hisses. "Come on, you filthy girl." He hitches a hand up under one side of Waylon's ass, and tugs. Waylon can feel him bearing down, and then the slick pop of the head of his cock breaching the muscle and slipping into tight heat.  
  
"Fuck," they gasp in unison as Waylon's cock slides in and bottoms out, fitting perfectly, like they were made for each other. Waylon feels his balls already drawing up from the heat and contractions as Eddie's body adjusts to the invasion. Eddie is still and slack below him, chest heaving, eyes tightly shut and pink lips open and soft. Waylon bends down and presses a gentle, messy kiss there, trying to distract himself from coming, and Eddie responds by opening wider, breath coming in hot gusts along Waylon's cheek. Waylon's hand is still holding the head of Eddie's penis, and so he tightens his fingers and begins to stroke, slowly rolling the foreskin up and down against his palm.  
  
"Nnhf, Waylon," Eddie groans as Waylon starts to gently piston his hips in time with his strokes, keeping his dick buried deep and thrusts short, hoping the ridge of the head will bump his prostate, and that the short thrusts delay his own building orgasm. His head feels foggy with pleasure, the endorphins so thick in his blood that he swears he can smell them in the air.   
  
As if on instinct, Eddie hikes his knees suddenly over Waylon's shoulders, heels pressing at his back, letting Waylon push in closer and tighter, dick sinking deeper. Waylon hooks an arm around his thigh and continues to jerk him off in long hard strokes, feeling the veins in his cock twitch and shudder. Waylon's belly and chest bump against Eddie's thighs and heavy balls, and then he feels Eddie's hand on his belly, pressing up the soft damp skin to his nipples, cupping the flesh there.   
  
Eddie's eyes open in the dark, and Waylon feels caught in them, pinned and fluttering like a moth in a trap. There's no question in his eyes, no hesitation, just love and ecstasy.  
  
"Darling," he sighs, catching Waylon's mouth with his own, before murmuring against his lips, "Harder."  
  
Waylon sobs and pulls back farther, pushing in roughly. Eddie's breath hitches as his body rocks against the bed from the force of it, eyes fluttering closed again. "Harder," he repeats in a whisper. "Darling, harder."  
  
Waylon obliges, bracing his knees and rolling his body in a vicious rhythm, muscles in his legs and abdomen already aching. Eddie takes it like a pro, body opening up and swallowing him greedily. The soft wet sounds of their coupling resonate in the small room. Waylon pulls at his cock in earnest, other hand slipping between Eddie's thighs and rolling his balls. He can feel them pulling up tight against Eddie's body, close to orgasm.  
  
"Waylon-" Eddie gasps, pushing his hands down to cup Waylon's ass as he fucks him, fingertips digging into his flesh and pulling him in tighter, harder. They curve around the soft mounds of his ass and press to his cleft, brushing his hole.  
  
"Edd-" Waylon stutters, before he's cut off by a sudden crescendo in Eddie's moans, culminating in a low wail as his testicles and cock and asshole pulse with a deep, violent orgasm. Eddie's whole body bows, limbs locking around Waylon with bruising force, forehead pressed tight to Waylon's as he comes in great white spurts up his own chest. The sudden contracting of his hole seizes Waylon by the dick and wrings his own sudden and brutal climax from him, pulling the semen from his body in hot spurts, flooding the tightening space of Eddie's hole. Waylon feels lightheaded, every nerve in his body alive and singing, and feels Eddie's body go lax against his, lost in his own unexpectedly abrupt pleasure.  
  
When he comes back to himself, he feels Eddie's hands smoothing up and down his back, almost absently. "Oh my god," Eddie sighs.   
  
Despite the overstimulation, Waylon presses himself tighter against Eddie's ass as he feels his cock soften and threaten to slip out, keeping the seal of his hips pressed against him. Eddie gasps and jerks in his grip, and his cock twitches valiantly where it lies in a leaking pool of come on his belly.  
  
"My husband," Waylon hears himself say breathily, the words slipping out unconsciously before he can parse them. "My dear Groom."  
  
He sees the white of Eddie's teeth flash under him as he grins, eyes opening a crack, heavy lidded. He's still catching his breath as he answers, in an equally thoughtless rhythm. "My sweet girl. My Bride."

  
  
Waylon doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he wakes to the muffled thunk of a security guard locking their door. He glances quickly at the clock, which reads 10pm, predictably. The sudden jerk of movement loosens his soft cock, which had still been stuck in Eddie's ass, releasing a dribble of wetness onto the bedspread below them. Eddie, who had also apparently fallen asleep in their embrace, winces and bares his teeth, making a hissing sound as Waylon's dick finally slips out of his flushed hole, along with another rush of come and lube. His blue eyes blink awake in the dark, focusing.  
  
They had fallen asleep naked on top of the blankets, and Waylon suddenly shivers at the chill in the air he hadn't noticed earlier, the flesh on his arms goosepimpling. Waylon keeps his eyes on Eddie's as he shifts up onto all fours over him, searching for any twinge of regret, or anger, or tears.  
  
"Do you want to take a shower with me?" he suggests.  
  
Eddie's eyes remain tired and fond, and that's all. He nods wordlessly, shifting his body to test his sore muscles. Waylon can't be sure if he's displeased or not, since the man keeps his expression blank as he rolls his hips against the bed, testing the ache in his asshole.  
  
Thankfully, Waylon is only wondering for a moment. In the next moment, Eddie smirks, almost shy, face flushing red. In a voice rough from screaming, he adopts his polite speech again. "That sounds lovely. But I think I need to use the, ah, facilities, first."  
  
Waylon grins and hops up on his wobbling legs. "That's okay, that's normal," he babbles. "Take all the time you need."  
  
Eddie stands slowly and cracks his back, expression still slightly distasteful as a fresh dribble of Waylon's semen makes its way down his inner thigh. The large man wobbles to the bathroom and gives Waylon a reprimanding look as he turns to close the door and catches Waylon watching his naked back. Waylon coughs, embarrassed, and focuses on picking up their discarded clothes.   
  
The door clicks quietly shut, and he stops. He sighs heavily.  
  
He waits for the guilt to come. It does.  
  
Waylon busies himself with straightening the room, folding away their clothes, then stripping the top blanket from the bed and replacing it with a clean one from the closet. It only takes him a few moments, and then there's nothing left to do.  
  
The guilt threatens to claw apart his throat, shredding the flesh of his chest. It feels like another panic attack, slowly crawling up his body like a nightmare creature, and he's powerless and frozen as it settles on his chest and opens its wide jaws over his face.  
  
You have to tell him, the voice says, only it sounds like himself this time. Just himself. Even if you lose him. Even if you die.  
  
Yes. After they're out, he decides. When they're out, and they're safe, and he's made sure that people know. Then he's going to tell him.   
  
The bathroom door clicks open and he looks up. Eddie is standing there, face still red. He coughs delicately. "I think I understand your point about the condoms."  
  
Waylon smiles shakily, half shrugs. "They make them latex free. Outside."  
  
Eddie meets his eyes bashfully, and shakes his head. "I liked feeling you." He seems to resolve himself, pushing the door wider. "Come join me?"  
  
Waylon does.  
  
They soap up and rinse each other in that familiar, intimate ritual. Neither is interested in more sex; their cocks lie soft and spent, even as they run gently hands over them to clean them. Waylon wraps his arms around Eddie's hips and gingerly touches his hole, feeling the hitch of his breath against his chest. Satisfied that he's physically unharmed, he asks, "Does it hurt?"  
  
Eddie shakes his head, eyes pressed tightly shut.  
  
Waylon pulls away slightly. "Eddie..."  
  
"It's sore, I guess. I'm not in pain," he answers before Waylon can start to push him, leveling his dark gaze at him, though it's fond. And exhausted. "I don't regret it."  
  
Waylon kisses his chest before he can help himself. "We should try to get an hour or two of sleep. We might not get any other rest tonight."  
  
Eddie tightens his grip where he's been holding onto Waylon's arms. "Darling, if things go badly... If they go badly and they try to separate us... I'm going to fight them. No matter what that means."  
  
Waylon wants to protest, wants to tell him to think strategically, that if they are caught and separated, that their priority should be to stay alive to continue the fight. But he can't stop the warm thrill that bubbles through him, and he knows the truth. "I'll fight too. No more lying low, waiting and hoping."  
  
Eddie releases his arms, and then turns them gently into the stream of the water.  
  
When they emerge, they have approximately two and a half hours until the designated time. Waylon fiddles with the controls of the clock, locating the alarm function, and stuffing it under the pillow to muffle the sound when it goes off. He and Eddie dress fully, even their sweaters, and crawl into bed side by side, lying flat on their backs shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, Eddie rolls toward him and wraps an arm around him, kissing his temple. They don't speak. Waylon can't think of anything to say.   
  
Miraculously, he manages to fall into a brief and dreamless sleep.


	37. Chapter 37

When he wakes, it's to the shift of the pillow as Eddie clicks off the muffled alarm.   
  
"It's 1am," Eddie whispers, eyes wide and deep.  
  
Waylon takes a deep breath. Eddie stands, and Waylon follows him. They move to the door.  
  
"I should try to pick the lock first, before we try to force it," Waylon says. "Maybe I can-"  
  
The lock clicks as the door is unlocked from outside. They step back in unison, Eddie pushing Waylon behind him with an elbow. For a moment, all Waylon can think is that Murkoff got wind of their plan, that they came early. Then the door pushes open, and Miles head appears, and he and Eddie let out a long sigh.  
  
Miles gives them a look. "What?"  
  
"We thought you were Murkoff," Eddie says. "What happened to breaking the door down?"  
  
Miles pushes the door wide. Chris Walker is standing several paces away down the hall, towering. He's rubbing one of his shoulders, and his face behind the bandages is a perplexing mix of misery and optimism.  
  
"Chris busted through his door in like, a second," Miles says, cockiness betrayed by the occasionally frightened glance into his peripheral in Walker's direction. "Told you it was a good idea."  
  
Waylon just shakes his head, mystified. Eddie attempts to stare down Chris, but the man meekly avoids his gaze, rotating his shoulder in its socket. Waylon looks at him warily; the huge man is doing his best to look non-threatening, but he's clearly powerful enough to give even Eddie a challenge, should he snap unexpectedly. Waylon tries to recall the slip of a file he found on the guy; former military, he thinks.  
  
"We should go quickly," Miles says, interrupting Waylon's thoughts. "We don't know how much time we have."  
  
The four of them slip as quietly as they can to the elevators. Waylon can hear the shifting and murmuring of other men in their rooms, aware that something in the halls is not quite right. When they reach the common room and press the elevator button, Waylon confirms that the camera is still broken, before turning to Miles. "We should let some of the other men out."  
  
"This is a stealth mission for now," Miles says. "We'll let them out once we're ready for things to pop off."  
  
Chris is staring at the elevator doors as they open with a quiet ding. Waylon hears him speak for the first time, in a quiet, broken voice. "What... if the elevator is being... monitored?"  
  
Miles balks. "Shit. Shit, I didn't think of that."  
  
Waylon shakes his head. "There's no other way down, except the stairs, and opening THAT will definitely trigger the fire alarm. We would have had to use it anyway, and just hope."  
  
They push in, and the fit is tight. They're a mess. Miles is sweating profusely, skin gone even more pale and gray. Chris keeps wringing his hands anxiously. Eddie is shifting nervously on his feet, eyeballing the other two, arm around Waylon. Waylon is bracing himself and focusing on breathing deep and slow to quash the rising panic, wondering if the doors will open to men in body armor, assault rifles pointed in at them.  
  
For a second, Waylon can't help but think cynically that there's no way the four of them are going to engineer a successful escape. There's no way. But the wheels are in motion, and they have no choice but to ride this disaster wherever it's going, right to the end.  
  
The soft ding of the doors reopening reveals the empty, darkened common room on the recreation floor. The bulb of the security camera is still broken here, wiring hanging limply. Cautiously, they move out into the dark of the room, away from the single light by the elevator.   
  
It's nearly silent. There's a gentle hum of machinery, the heating units pumping warm air through the vents. Not even a shuffle or sniffle from a distant guard.  
  
"This is just eerie," Miles murmurs.  
  
"Let's not dwell on it," Eddie says briskly. "Which way is this room?"  
  
Waylon points, and Eddie takes off into the dark, Waylon at his heels. They reach the entrance to the hall and there's a quiet bang and a curse behind them.    
  
Waylon whirls, panic rising, only to see Miles rubbing his knee and staring down at the chair he'd bumped into, with Chris hovering worriedly behind him. It's only when Miles looks up, and casts his wide eyed, vacant gaze around the room, that Waylon realizes. "Oh. I forgot, you can't see."  
  
Miles sneers in the dark. "It's pitch black, of course I can't- Wait, fuck, are you telling me you can see in the dark?!"  
  
Waylon is about to offer to lead them by hand, when he looks up at Chris, and catches the glint of the night vision lens in his eyes, wide and staring confusedly back at him. "I... can see."  
  
Miles grumbles, cautiously feeling his way around the chair and towards Waylon's voice. "Why does everyone have better superpowers than me?"  
  
"The Engine," Waylon says. "It must be an effect from watching the Engine. You were never put into it, right?"  
  
Miles huffs, but Eddie interrupts before he responds, taking Waylon by the hand and tugging him. "Can we save these discussions for later? Big man, please lead the little man by the hand, if you would?"  
  
Miles flinches, but still offers his sweaty and trembling hand in the dark. "It's Miles. And he's Chris."  
  
"I thought it was Frank," Eddie quips back as he pulls Waylon down the hall impatiently.   
  
"My name... is not Frank..." Chris mumbles, tentatively taking Miles' hand in his large, meaty palm and walking him carefully toward them.  
  
Waylon grimaces at Eddie, but the man doesn't notice, preoccupied with peering into doors and office windows.  
  
Besides Dr. Lin's office, many of the other office spaces are clearly vacant, shelves cleared of books and personal items. Waylon supposes they must have cleared out much of their staff before Murkoff came in, in an effort to maintain secrecy. When they reach the far door of the amenities room, Waylon peers in, and breathes a sigh of relief. Stacks of folders litter the desk and sit high in the office chair, new boxes of products sitting unopened on the floor. And there, squarely in the middle of the desk, is the laptop, still plugged in.   
  
"It's here," Waylon breathes. The machine calls to him, almost like it has some physical hold on him, pulling him toward it. "Let's go."  
  
Eddie tries the handle first, pushing at it experimentally, before Chris approaches, leaving Miles hugging the far wall. "Please, allow me." Eddie gives him an offended look, but acquiesces when Waylon gives his hand a tug.  
  
Chris makes short work of the door, setting a shoulder to it and almost effortlessly popping it from the hinges, like it was a plastic toy. It makes an awful screech, and they brace themselves in the silence that follows, listening. Hearing nothing, they pile into the office, Chris leaning the detached door carefully against the wall and moving to inspect the gate at the back. Waylon has the computer in his hands before he realizes it, pushing the screen up, the bright light of the LCD blinding him for a moment. He doesn't even remember letting go of Eddie.  
  
His hands buzz. He's spent hours and hours of his life with a computer at his fingertips. It feels like a limb that had fallen asleep is waking up again, full of pins and needles.  
  
"It's password protected," Miles groans, leaning over his shoulder into the light.  
  
"Not a problem," Waylon says, rebooting and holding down the keys that bring up a familiar black screen and blinking cursor. "It's not encrypted." It's like sense memory, pulling up the computer's registry and wiping the password data, the code flying from his fingertips, a second language. He had missed this. He hadn't realized how much he had missed this. He had forgotten how powerful it made him feel.   
  
When he reboots again and clicks through to the desktop, Miles lets out a quiet whistle. "Holy shit. You're really fucking good, aren't you."  
  
Waylon grins.  
  
The next minutes are a blur. Waylon hears some murmurs behind him, something about Miles and Chris checking the other rooms. Eddie, he thinks, lingers by the door, casting unsettled glances at him. There's a distant sound of breaking glass. Meanwhile, Waylon reforms the machine in front of him to suit his needs, rewriting permissions and setting up new processes to hide him, slipping into the hospital's network. It's not easy, which is good, because it means they won't expect it. The network is closed, as he expected, with no obvious access to the outside world. The framework of a plan forms as he familiarizes himself with their system.  
  
He prioritizes the bands on their ankles. It's tricky to find, because the technology isn't wired in with the rest, an isolated GPS system. Not so tricky to deactivate, as he finds the system still practically fresh from the box, no failsafes, and easily reverses the signal, deactivating the remote activation mechanisms and dropping their signals. It worries him a bit more, so he scrambles the code as much as he can, hoping it will slow them down when someone actually moves to fix it, and hoping that Dr. Clark is just not tech savvy enough to realize how vulnerable the system was.  
  
"We should be clear. We're on a timer until they realize we've ghosted, but that shouldn't be until they find one of us out of place-" he says, looking up at Eddie. But it's not Eddie. It's Miles, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.  
  
"Your 'husband' is snooping around with Chris," Miles says. "Looking for anything useful. He asked me to keep an eye on you. You get really into it when you get into it, huh."  
  
Waylon rubs his eyes, slowly returning to himself. He's unsettled at not having Eddie close, at not noticing he was gone. "Ugh. How long has it been."  
  
"About half an hour. So you figured out the ankle monitor thing?"  
  
Waylon nods. "It wasn't bundled with the security network. Dr. Clark set it up separately so it could activate without power or internet signal. We still can't take them off without some kind of physical key, and the system can be re-engaged once they get through the mess I left for them, so it's not a perfect solution. The best thing we can do is get as far out of range as possible, as fast as possible, then either find something to block the signal or figure out how to deactivate them." He wiggles his leg under the desk, feeling the weight of the strap. "Hardware like this isn't my area so, I have no idea what to do about that."  
   
"Yikes. So now what? Can you get in there and deactivate the alarms and shit?" He hops forward eagerly, pulling up a stool and plopping himself onto it.  
  
"I think so," Waylon answers, pulling up the window where's he's been monitoring the security network. But it'll take more time, and there's going to be failsafes I won't be able to avoid triggering. Once I start, we should be ready to move."  
  
Miles nods enthusiastically. "Okay, sounds good. Weather's still clear out too, so we just need a car."  
  
With the computer in hand, and the plan playing out at his fingertips, escape is feeling more and more like a reality. Waylon tries to tamp down the kick of adrenaline he gets as he considers it. "Where do we go when we're out? I tried to make a run for it before I ended up here and they still caught me."  
  
"I have some contacts. Professional conspiracy theorists, basically. They can hide us. Don't suppose you can email from this?"  
  
Waylon shakes his head and gestures to the unopened cardboard boxes on the floor. "I think he must have been putting through orders for these products via cellphone. I'm guessing Murkoff required a closed network to avoid a situation like mine. No one emailing out from the inside."  
  
Miles grimaces. "Okay, so we get to a phone outside." He pauses thoughtfully, for a long moment, eyes on the machine. "How much Murkoff data does this thing have on it?"  
  
"Almost nothing," Waylon answers, already knowing his next questions. "That's why when I start working on the security, I'm going to start downloading their secured database. All of the data they have, about their experiments, everything they're storing locally. Which is going to take some... extra time. And that's going to really set off some alarms."  
  
The other man nods. "We're on the same page, then. But I don't think your hubby is going to appreciate anything that makes our escape more difficult. He's irritated enough that we're not already out the door."  
  
Waylon frowns. "This is why I'm here. Why I've been through everything I've been through. If I don't expose what they've been doing, if I don't have proof-"  
  
"-then what's the point of walking away at all." Miles finishes somberly, eyes on the bright screen. "I'm a reporter. My job was, IS, to find stories, but more importantly, truth. If we only walk away from this with our skins intact... It's not enough."  
  
Waylon swallows at the lump in his throat, and nods. "I wish I could have this conversation with Eddie. But he's not going to understand, yet. So let's... let's keep this to ourselves, yeah?"  
  
Miles' eyes are scrutinizing when he looks up again. "This probably would have been a bit simpler if you'd bailed on him. You really care about that guy, huh."  
  
He rubs a hand over his tired eyes again. "I... It's complicated. But yeah."  
  
The other man shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. "You don't need to defend yourself. I... kind of get it."  
  
Waylon levels an acidic look at him, jealousy bubbling up through him. Miles reads him in an instant and throws up his hands defensively. "Whoa! I don't mean I find him, like, attractive or whatever! He's all yours! Just that, like, I get your point. From earlier. About how everyone's changed."  
  
Waylon shakes his head. "Sorry, I... I don't know what's come over me lately." He sighs and looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers, contemplative. His hands ache a little, after being away from a keyboard for so long.  
  
"He's really not even my type."  
  
Waylon pauses. He looks up at Miles. It's almost impossible to see the blush crawling up Miles' face as he avoids his eyes. Almost. "Miles..."  
  
"You're not either, don't get stressed out," Miles says, coughing to cover up the embarrassment in his voice.   
  
Waylon's eyebrows climb higher. Miles squirms.  
  
"When you said, 'So I should fuck Chris Walker'," Waylon starts, bewildered, but somehow, completely unsurprised.  
  
"No one's talking about fucking!" Miles snipes, abruptly sitting straight, full of manic energy. "I just, like, I'm not into the whole... Not like you and... I mean, fuck, he's NICE, okay?! I didn't expect that, you know, he just like a... a big, sweet puppy. That was former military. And is crazy strong."  
  
Waylon's mouth drops open.   
  
"You're not one to judge, anyway, Park," Miles hisses, though Waylon can tell there's a playfulness to it. "So what? I'm into big fat guys with big fat dicks and biiiig muscles. Sue my gay ass."  
  
Waylon just shakes his head. "This is... not the conversation I expected to have tonight."  
  
Miles scratches at his stubble and winces. "TMI?"  
  
"TMI," Waylon agrees as he turns back to the screen.  
  
Miles wiggles his body uncomfortably for a moment as Waylon starts to set up some autorun tasks.   
  
"I really didn't mean to talk about fucking."  
  
Waylon sighs heavily. "Look-"  
  
"No, right, sorry. Keeping our eyes on the prize," Miles says, throwing his hands up again in surrender, before lurching forward and planting his elbows on the desk beside the laptop, pushing a finger at the screen. "So what's the first- Oh."  
  
As Miles finger makes contact with the screen, the LCD screen warps in a rainbow of color, like a magnet on an old CRT screen. And then it goes black, and Waylon's heart leaps in his chest. "-FUCK."  
  
Miles hand snaps back just as Waylon's snap forward. "Oh shit, oh shit, the Walrider, I didn't think- Did my fucking body just fry our escape plan?!"  
  
Before Waylon can move his hand to the restart button, the white cursor appears, as if the computer had been rebooted. And then, before he can breathe a sigh of relief, code begins to appear.  
  
"Fuck, are we being hacked?" Miles asks frantically behind Waylon's shoulder as he watches the lines of text crawl over the screen, eyes flying over them, trying to decipher them. "What IS that?"  
  
"It's a... A management system..." Waylon says slowly. "A really complex..." He stops, realization dawning, washing over him and prickling his skin.  
  
"What?" Miles demands, eyes wide and fearful.  
  
"You," Waylon answers. "It's you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about computer programming so my apologies if there are any big "It's a Unix system!" moments in this.


	38. Chapter 38

They watch the code crawl over the screen for several minutes, in silence. The clenching feeling in Waylon's gut increases. Escape is in the back of their minds, faint and constant. In front of them, the truth unfolds.  
  
Chris Walker approaches the door, a laundry bag in his hands, stocked with a small assortment of items. "M-Miles."  
  
"Yeah," Miles says, breathless.  
  
"I'm gonna let... the other men out, like we discussed." He hands over the bag, which Miles takes with a trembling hand. "This is all I could find. The door in the back, I could... open it, and you could look... for food, you know, or..."  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea," Miles says, sounding like he's run a marathon. He hops out of his chair and disappears from Waylon's peripherals. There's some quiet muttering as Chris comes in and breaks the door at the back, allowing access to the storage room, and then quietly heads off. Miles returns a moment later, the bag twisted in his hands, clearly with no intent to stock it.  
  
"You should do as he says," Waylon says, keeping his eyes fixed on the code scrolling past him.  
  
"Yeah. I know. But you've gotta explain this shit first," Miles growls, wiping at his sweaty face.  
  
Waylon pushes back slowly. His whole body feels stiff, like he'd worked out too hard and then lay still too long afterward.  
  
"It's the Walrider. And you. And I recognize some of this, from the Morphogenic Engine. It's... I'm still getting my mind around it but..."  
  
"Am I actually dead," Miles forces out, voice tight. "I was kind of joking before, but like, am I still ME, or like, am I just... Is my body gone, and I'm just made of..."  
  
"The management system is for your body," Waylon answers. "You're not dead. But not... exactly alive. It's like it's taken over, and mapped out all of your bodily functions, your breathing, circulation, your... Your brain patterns..."  
  
"Is it controlling what I THINK?" Miles says wildly.  
  
"I don't know. I don't think so. It looks like it's just monitoring, and maintaining. Like a life support system. I... It looks like a step in evolution, basically; the Walrider was contained in Mount Massive because it relied on the host, and the Engine to connect it to the host. But you're all of those things in one, the nanotech, the Engine, and the host." Waylon breathes in deep. "There are other processes, but they're not running now. I think it's the 'weapon' functionality which activates the Walrider."  
  
"Can't you like, hack it? And tell it to... Tell it to... I don't know-"  
  
"There's more than that," Waylon says stiffly, barely believing himself what he's about to say, but the evidence of it is clear on the screen in front of him. "It's altering its own code, almost organically. And it's..." He stops, for a long time. "I think it WANTS us to see this."  
  
"What-"  
  
"It wants us to know that it's here." Waylon presses a hand to his chest, feeling his own heartbeat through his warm skin.  
  
"It's alive?" Miles asks in a small voice.   
  
" _Aware_."  
  
Seconds pass as they both breathe heavily in the small, quiet room. Waylon leans forward as the code on the screen writhes and coils like a living, breathing thing.  
  
"You're not the only one in here," Waylon says, realization dawning.  
  
"Oh good," Miles answers sarcastically. "Who else?"  
  
"Everyone."  
  
Waylon puts his fingertips near the screen, parsing the information in front of him. "We're a network. You're essentially the main server, but the nanotech is all over, self replicating, spreading. It's using the patients as hubs. ALL of us. This must be why it's healing us, and giving us... advantages. It maps our physicalities, repairs and improves them. It considers us part of itself."  
  
"That's why everyone got sane," Miles says, voice cold with terror. "It IS in our heads. It must be."  
  
"The medication-"  
  
"What medicine works this well?" Miles barks. "On Chris Walker, on Eddie Gluskin? On ALL of them, this quickly, with no side effects?"  
  
Waylon can't argue. He thinks about Eddie's rapid recovery, his conveniently muddled memory. His own insanity flashes into his head, the dark and violent impulses, the desire for a man who nearly murdered him.  
  
"I thought they... _we_ were getting better," Miles continues dully. "But we're not, are we. Crazy as ever. Just repurposed. Molded to suit a need. The Walrider's need."  
  
Waylon can't answer. Miles looks up at him, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears.  
  
"What DOES the Walrider need?"  
  
"To survive," Waylon says quietly. "Same as us."  
  
He reaches out to the keyboard. The text stops as he lays his fingers on the keys. He types a simple line of code, a greeting. After a moment, it echoes him.  
  
"This is how we control it," Waylon realizes. "We work with it. I could ask it to activate its weapons processes. I could probably even-"  
  
Miles stands abruptly, pulling Waylon's attention from the screen at last. The man moves away toward the back of the room, and starts pulling open boxes, face pinched and angry.  
  
"You already suspected most of this," Waylon says.  
  
"I don't think I expected it to be spelled out so clearly for me," Miles bites, revealing a box of magazines, which he pushes away before pulling another one close. "It was easier when it was all kind of a vague concept. I mean..." He pulls open the next box, revealing several pairs of plastic bagged slippers. "There's no separating ME from THAT, is there. Ever."  
  
Waylon studies him. "I don't think that's going to be the case for any of us."  
  
"The thing is..." Miles says, sliding to his knees on the floor and sitting back on his heels. "You know, I met you, and I just knew right away. 'I can trust this guy.' I thought it was my gut, you know? But what if it's just the fucking Walrider? My bugs talking to your bugs?"  
  
Waylon's jaw works. He thinks about Eddie.  
  
Miles digs through a few more boxes, then stands and disappears into the back. Waylon can't make himself move, not wanting to look at the screen behind him, terrified that he'll turn and the code will be back, laying it all out for him, the mechanics and intricacies and human ugliness of how he feels for Eddie, and how Eddie feels for him. Converted from neat lines of code.  
  
Miles emerges a few minutes later, the laundry bag fuller. "We've got snacks now." He hoists it over his shoulder, stands for a moment and looks down at Waylon, more collected. "I think we have to agree not to think about this. And not to tell the others. Until we get out."  
  
Waylon swallows hard and nods. "I'll focus on setting up the database download and security breach. I can have it ready to run in ten."  
  
"I feel like shit about it but I don't think we can risk getting Dennis. But if we get the information out fast enough, maybe authorities can rescue him, and anyone else being held upstairs. We'll already have a dozen guys to worry about."  
  
Waylon nods again.   
  
"I'll go find Chris. Let's meet at the elevators?"  
  
Waylon looks up. "Where's Eddie?"  
  
Miles gestures toward the hall. "He's down the hall in one of the offices. I think he found one of those tablets that the doctors were carrying around, in case you need it." He bends to the box with the slippers, and picks up one of the plastic wrapped sets. "Here. This one has your name on it. Literally."  
  
Waylon takes it. It does indeed, a slightly messy scrawl over the crisp plastic. Those slippers Mr. Boer had ordered for him days ago, in his size. Waylon thinks about the man he'd met in this office, oblivious, friendly. He thinks about the abandoned laptop computer, the office in disarray. He wonders if that man's alive or dead.  
  
Miles puts a hand on his shoulder. "You got it together?"  
  
"Do you?" Waylon snorts.  
  
Miles grins, all teeth. "As much as I can hope for." He pats him once, and then makes his way out into the hall and out of sight.  
  
Waylon collapses into the office chair. He takes another deep breath, and another. There's a crawling feeling on his skin, a static buzz, and he wonders if it's real, or an invention of his delicate mental state. He kicks off the slippers on his feet and peels the plastic from the fresh ones, pulling them on. They fit much better. No room in the toes for stolen medical lubricant.  
  
He squares his shoulders and turns to the computer, only to be greeted with the programs he was writing before Miles touched the screen. He breathes out in relief. He doesn't know if he could have stopped himself from looking at it, the Walrider's code. He quickly finishes setting up the remaining processes, so that the moment he enters the command, it will start a chain reaction that should get them the database, first floor elevator access and a pass through the front gate. He'll have to be nimble if anyone tries to interfere, but their timing couldn't have been better, security punched full of human holes from the transfer.  
  
He closes the lid on the laptop and unplugs it from the wall, gathering the cables in a loop, and then heads into the hall, the new rubber soles of his slippers squeaking. There's a ball in the pit of his gut he can't shake, not certain if its from the revelations of the nanotech or their impending escape attempt.  
  
He peers into the dark offices as he passes them, the doors broken open by Chris. Empty rooms, cleaned out, he remembers. He looks forward. The only office that had anything left in it was Dr. Lin's.  
  
Waylon's breathing grows ragged as he nears the door to her office. He realizes, on some level, he already knows what he will find.  
  
Inside Dr. Lin's office, files are strewn across the floor, as if tossed in heavy handfuls until the desired files were found. Those files are lying open on the desk, side by side. Eddie Gluskin's and Waylon Park's. The small tablet is off to the side, pulled from one of the locked drawers, all of which have been pried open and emptied.   
  
Eddie sits in the chair behind the desk, head bowed low, the photo of Waylon and Lisa and their two boys clutched in both hands in front of him.


	39. Chapter 39

"No," Waylon breathes. This can't be happening. Not now.   
  
He feels a visceral awareness of each moment crawling over them. It takes many of them before Eddie lifts his head, agonizingly slow, and fixes the bright lens of his eyes on Waylon's small form in the battered doorway.   
  
All of the worst parts of the Groom peer out at him. Anger. Hate.   
  
Betrayal.  
  
"I can explain," Waylon huffs. "It's not..."  
  
"You... lied to me," Eddie says, voice gravelly and thick, as if coming from somewhere deeper within him. He pulls one hand from the photo, twitching, as if he has to force his fingers to unlock from it, and lays it against one of the files on the desk.  
  
"Waylon Park," he continues, almost calmly. "Murkoff employee. You were responsible for maintaining the Engine."  
  
"I didn't know," Waylon says quickly, breath short, like he's being strangled. The skin of his neck feels hot, the collar of his shirt dampening with perspiration. "And I tried to stop them, I was the _whistleblower_ , I tried-"  
  
"Wife," the word comes out acidic, poisonous. "Lisa Park. And two sons-" Waylon flinches at the sound of her name. "You're not in my file at all. We were never... You weren't a patient. You worked for them."  
  
"I didn't know what they were doing-"  
  
"I SAW you," Eddie growls, voice coming more forcefully, his body shifting like a coiled snake, tense and prepared. "I saw you through the glass when they put me in that fucking machine."  
  
Waylon can't answer, breath coming in gasps. His sweaty hands tremble and squeeze tight on the cables and laptop lid.  
  
"I saw you," Eddie repeats, pressing fingertips to his temple, squeezing his eyes closed, as if fighting something in his own mind. The photo in his hand shakes. "I thought it was a dream. My mind playing tricks on me."  
  
"They DID lock me up," Waylon insists. "After I emailed Miles Upshur and told him what they were doing there. They told my family I'd lost my mind, and then they put me in that machine, the same as you."  
  
"You're NOT THE SAME AS ME!" Eddie roars, standing abruptly. The chair bangs against the shelves behind him, and Waylon catches himself startling back, shoulders connecting with the doorframe. "You're one of THEM! You LIED to me!"  
  
It's the Groom Waylon remembers from Mount Massive, face twisted and body taut with rage. He stands, a looming shadow, teeth white in the dark.  
  
"I let you..." he says, choking on the words. "I let you..."  
  
"You were going to kill me," Waylon gasps. "Once the incident started, in the Asylum, everyone, EVERYONE, lost their minds. You... You tried to kill me then. And then here, they _forced_ me..." His throat closes, and he swallows hard, but he can't clear it.  
  
"They _forced_ you to FUCK me? To LIE to me, pretend you were my..." the man shudders, hands fisted tight at his sides, the photo crumpling under his thumb.  
  
"You almost strangled me to death! Don't you remember?! What could I have done?!"  
  
Eddie opens his eyes and his gaze slices to Waylon through the black. Waylon's body shudders against the doorframe, but then, abruptly, calm washes over him.  
  
He had expected death. It was always on the back of his mind, every encounter he'd had with this man, every interaction. He'd come to expect it, weirdly satisfied that he knew how his life would end, that he could belong to this man at the very end, if only through dying at his hands. And he can see it, clearly. He's not sure if the Walrider would interfere, if it really is making them trust each other, if it manufactured their feelings for one another, and would stop them from damaging each other as surely as it would prevent its own hand from strangling its own neck. He thinks, though, that the Walrider would not have allowed this encounter to happen, if it was.  
  
He'll die in this office. It'll be over.  
  
Eddie moves stiffly, a step toward the desk. He takes the tablet in one hand and swipes the two files closed, gripping them in the other, the photo pressed face down on top. And then he moves past him into the hallway like a storm, dragging the debris of all of the moments they'd spent together in his wake. Waylon gasps like he's drowning.  
  
Eddie's _leaving_. He's leaving him.  
  
"Eddie, wait-" Waylon stutters, forcing his body to move after him, but the man's legs are longer, his strides carrying him quickly away through the common room, down the hall toward the cafeteria.   
  
"Eddie!" he manages to yell, just as the man vanishes out of sight.   
  
Waylon's just passing the room where they handed out pills (the light on, window shattered, he registers vaguely, the glass crunching under his rubber soles) when a broad hand catches his arm. The fingers slip in the sweat on his skin, and he nearly wrenches himself free, but then Chris Walker's other hand catches his shirt, lifting him nearly off the ground.  
  
"I'm sorry," Chris is saying. "I'm... sorry, please..."  
  
"Waylon! What is up with you?! Where the fuck is Gluskin going?" Miles is saying to his left, and Waylon turns and sees him through the shattered window of the dispensary, hands full of pill bottles, eyes wide.  
  
"He knows," Waylon gasps, body feeling heavy, like he's sinking. He nearly loses grip on the laptop in his hand as Chris sets him back on the floor. "He found... He knows."  
  
"Shit," Miles says, pill bottles rattling, and only then does Waylon notice the other men standing near them in the dark, clustered near the elevators, looking at him with big, perplexed eyes. "You're lucky he didn't bust your face open, pal."  
  
"I need to go, I need to find him-"  
  
"No, Waylon, listen to me. We need to get out. We need to break out of here, right now. This is our window. We can't afford distractions."  
  
"But Eddie-"  
  
"People will come back for him," Miles presses, dropping the handfuls of bottles on the desk inside and leaning closer the window. "We need to focus on what's most important."  
  
Waylon gasps, trying to catch his breath. He puts a hand to his face and it comes away wet with tears and mucus. He realizes he can't breathe because he's been sobbing. "I fucked up. I fucked it all up."  
  
"We need you right now, Waylon, don't do this to us," Miles says, voice low. " _I_ need you right now."  
  
Waylon shakes his head. The thought of escaping, leaving Eddie behind, it's unthinkable. "I can't-"  
  
Miles reaches through the shattered window and latches onto Waylon's collar, tugging him close. Waylon's belly bumps the wall as Miles fits his mouth to his ear, pressing the sides of their sweating faces together.   
  
"Waylon," he says. "All of the drugs in here are placebos."  
  
Waylon's brain stalls, trying to catch hold of the conversation. "I... what?"  
  
"The other patients were nervous that they were going to descend into madness without their meds, so we busted in and I pulled up the registry. And it's all _sugar pills_. None of these guys are medicated. They haven't been for days."  
  
"I don't..." Waylon struggles against Miles' grip, trying to look in the direction Eddie had gone.  
  
"I am freaking the fuck out about this, Waylon." Miles growls. "This whole fucking thing. But I'm focusing on what's important. And that's getting the truth to the public. And making Murkoff pay. I know what you're going through is a whole different beast. But you HAVE to FOCUS."  
  
Waylon gulps. He feels Miles' cheek pressed solidly to his, his hand fisted into his shirt. He takes a deep breath, than another.  
  
Eddie left him. He's alive. He doesn't want to be alive. He doesn't have anyone.  
  
"The world needs to know the truth."  
  
The truth. About these men, about... his family. His sweet Lisa and his baby boys. Disappeared, their deaths hidden in a lie.  
  
"I'm here," Waylon sniffs, voice small and thin. "Yeah, I... Okay. Okay."  
  
Miles pushes him away and looks him in the eye. The man's gray skin is glistening, the stubble on his cheeks and shorn hair wet with sweat. His eyes are wide and dark in the pale light. They're the most human eyes Waylon has looked into for a long time. "You with us?"  
  
Waylon forces himself to stand straight, focusing on breathing. He nods arrhythmically. "Yeah."  
  
Miles lets him go, and he stands still and waits as Chris helps Miles back through the broken window, dumping bottles of pills and a printout of their prescriptions into the laundry bag. Unnecessary, he processes, but then he looks over at the other men, and remembers why it's necessary. They don't know yet. He takes another deep breath.  
  
Behind him, Miles' feet crunch in the glass, and Chris Walker pauses. "The elevator..."  
  
He looks up, just as the other men do, and sees the light above the doors indicating the floor. It's rising, he sees, from floor one. It stops. No one has pressed the button.  
  
There is a soft ding as the doors open.  
  
It feels like the room itself is breathing with him, slow and deep.   
  
In the next thirty seconds, all hell breaks loose.  
  
Six men in black military grade armor thunder from the elevator, rifles held high. The lapels on their pockets are labeled; Murkoff security. The other patients panic, falling back against the walls and the floor, or shoved down as the men charge them, yelling at them to get down.  
  
Waylon's body is cold and empty as he sees the men move toward him. He remembers seeing videos of what the bullets from these guns do when they strike ballistic gel. They punch holes through people the size of oranges.   
  
Behind the men in the elevator, there's another person. He shuffles through the doors, wrists bound with thick cuffs, ankles chained. He's wearing a tattered and stained jumpsuit from Mount Massive Asylum, hanging off his skeletal form, and his hair is long and mangy.   
  
Frank Manera turns his face up to the light, eyes wide and manic. He has a wire muzzle strapped around his face, guarding his teeth. Waylon is still trying to parse his presence when two of the soldiers move toward him, pointing, just over his shoulder, at Miles.  
  
"All of you, get down on the floor and you won't be harmed. _You_! Stand separate, immediately!"  
  
"They're going to kill me," Miles says. One hand is pressed to his gut. "They must know who I am, they'll shoot all of us if you don't-"  
  
Waylon watches the men take aim. He realizes they aren't getting another warning. One of the other soldiers, their commander presumably, yells, "Don't hesitate! If you give it time to react, it-"  
  
The Walrider screeches from Miles' body like a swarm of bees, nearly bowling him over, overtaking the two closest men and piercing them like a billion microscopic bullets. They're thrown backwards, their guns firing wildly into the ceiling and floor. A bullet catches one of the other soldiers in the neck, and he goes down, screaming and gurgling. Two more shots hit patients who were lying on their stomachs, sending them thrashing and bleeding across the linoleum tiles.  
  
The dark swirl of the Walrider has already left the two men dead and is streaking towards the others as Chris Walker dives for the dropped weapons, his soldier's instincts kicking in. The floor is smeared with blood and the air is thick with the heavy metal stink of more than blood. Miles falls against Waylon's shoulder, droplets of red standing out on his skin from the Walrider's rapid exit, breath coming in ragged gasps. Waylon throws an arm under his, and hoists him, pulling him back against the wall as Chris exchanges fire with the remaining men.   
  
The remaining patients scatter in the chaos, hiding in corners or fighting with the soldiers, as Chris falls back toward them in a military crouch.   
  
The elevator doors have just started to close when Waylon looks again at Frank Manera. He registers how pale and gray the man looks, just as a second swarm of nanotech emerges from his body, mirroring Miles.  
  
"It's a second system," Waylon gasps in horrible understanding.  
  
"A second Walrider," Miles grunts.  
  
"The stairs!" Chris roars at them, pushing them back as the second Walrider forms and descends on the closest patient, shredding him. Manera opens his mouth wide behind the bite mask as he's spattered with blood, like he's catching snowflakes, shrieking.  
  
The emergency exit to the stairwell is behind them, and the moment they push it open, the fire alarm starts, a deafening shriek that echoes in the narrow concrete space. Waylon stumbles through, the laptop slipping from his fingers and skittering across the floor. Miles falls to his knees and groans in pain. Waylon looks up toward the ascending stairwell, and sees a flash of black as a backup pair of soldiers charges toward them.  
  
Waylon's moving toward them before he can think, stumbling down the stairs and colliding with them. They stink of sweat and industrial metals, and look at him with shock, too surprised at bumping into a small, unassuming Asian man to fire. He puts his hands on their necks. He feels the buzz of the nanotech that lives in his skin. The machines shred the stubbled skin of the men's throats, the white of the ligaments and exposed trachea flashing in the alarm lights. They gurgle, red blood bubbling over white teeth. They soak him to the shoulder before they fall.  
  
"Shit," Miles sputters behind him, and Waylon knows it's directed at him. He looks up just as Chris barricades the door with a chair, the emptied rifle clattering to the ground. Below them, they hear the doors slam open, and the thud of more boots.  
  
 "Up," Chris says, lifting Miles and pulling him up the stairs. Waylon is careful not to slip in the blood as he scoops up his laptop and follows. He doesn't look back at the dead men.  
  
The whole incident took only 30 seconds.


	40. Chapter 40

"They must have... been monitoring the elevator," Chris huffs as he thunders up the stairs. "What's on the fourth floor?"  
  
"The hospital wing," Miles answers, equally breathless. Below them, there's a shrieking and the sound of shredding fabric as Miles' Walrider tears through the soldiers chasing them. "We need weapons, we need... fuck, how do we fucking fight another Walrider?!"  
  
"I need to get into the network," Waylon says, on autopilot. He's blanked, in survival mode, trying not to think of Eddie, alone on the same floor as Frank Manera and a second experimental _war machine_. "They... The nanotech must have diverged somewhere, some parts of it separated from each other and developed their own code, a separate system-"  
  
They reach the fourth floor and burst through the door, startling two nurses who are standing near the end of the hall. The hall is bright and clean, but as they spill through the door, the Walrider follows them, streaking the floor and walls with red. Chris pushes the door shut and puts his weight against the frame, warping it and jamming it closed. Waylon slips in the blood and slides on his ass, bumping into the wall, computer in his lap.  
  
He looks down the long hall at the nurses, standing uncertain and wide-eyed several yards away. He recognizes the tired faces of Daniel and Carla, the nurses who cared for him in those first few days at Blue Garden. He sees the snaking tendrils of the Walrider along the walls and the floor as it debates whether to go for them.  
  
Unthinking, he throws open the lid of the laptop. "Miles!"  
  
Eyes widening in understanding, Miles lurches forward and presses his hand to the back of the screen. The screen flexes and darkens, and desperately, Waylon types a line, and then another, trying to command, or reason. The smoke crawls toward the nurses, picking up speed. The two of them see it now, and start to hurry back, stumbling over their own feet.  
  
"They're not a threat," Waylon shouts frantically, trying again.  
  
It works.  
  
The smoke puffs as if it's hit an invisible wall. Code crawls across his screen, signaling its confusion. Waylon does his best to translate, trying to explain the difference between a soldier in military gear and a nurse in scrubs to a thing that can't even properly see. It's like trying to speak to someone whose language you know, but not the dialect.  
  
"Wow," Miles breathes, eyes on the rippling shape of the nanotech, but then the door bangs loudly.  
  
Waylon looks up at the fleeing nurses, just in time to catch their eyes, wild with fear, as he hears the elevator doors open around the corner.  
  
"Here!" Chris yells, lifting them both off their feet and pushing them through a door into an empty room, barricading the door behind them as the Walrider reforms in the hall and races toward the sound of boots on tile.  
  
"We're cornered," Miles says frantically, fingers still clutched at his stomach, the blood on his skin and clothes already turning brown and flaky. "I'm gonna faint." Then he does, Chris catching him as he falls.  
  
"He's lost a lot of blood," Chris says, laying the unconscious man on the empty bed.  
  
Waylon watches passively, catching his breath. He listens to the carnage in the hall as the Walrider demolishes Murkoff's security. He wonders how long they have until they march Frank Manera up to them, if he's not already.  
  
Three minutes ago, they still had a plan. Only ten minutes ago, he was still Eddie's husband.  
  
He pushes the screen up, and pulls up his plans for security. He initiates. "I'm knocking out the security for the building. That means auto locks, alarms, cameras. I'm going to take out the elevators too, so they'll have to use the stairs if they want to send more people up. That means we can't use it either." He also begins his download of the database, which will take extra time. But he doesn't tell Chris that.  
  
Chris just nods, his eyes on Miles.  
  
Waylon looks at Chris, hovering over his unconscious friend. The massive man is glistening with sweat, the deep scarring on his face red and irritated, the bandage across his nose and cheeks soaked through along with his shirt. "He'll be fine. The Walrider's keeping him alive."  
  
Chris hesitates, face twisting in confusion, then he swallows. "I... I don't remember a lot, from... the Asylum. I just remember... trying to keep it contained." The man turns slowly, looking intensely at Waylon. "We're not going to make it out of here."  
  
Waylon's chest tightens. "Are you going to stop us?"  
  
He shakes his head, then slowly looks at Miles again. "No. It's just my... experience. I was a tactical commander... Before."  
  
Outside, the chaos quiets. The lights flicker.  
  
"If they know you're in their network, they'll cut the power," Chris says, and Waylon gulps, thinking of the transfer. "We need to move."  
  
Miles starts to rouse as Chris lifts him and pushes aside the shelving he'd barricaded the door with. He slips into the hall with confidence, and Waylon follows him less eagerly. The floor and walls outside are spattered with blood and human viscera, and for a moment, Waylon's back in Mount Massive again, the Engine flashing behind his eyes. Text appears on the screen in his arms, and he realizes it's the Walrider. He almost snorts a laugh as he deciphers the code and realizes it's telling him to focus.  
  
"Are you fuckin' laughing at this, Park," Miles slurs over Chris' shoulder as they step carefully over the mess of gore the Walrider left behind.  
  
"The Walrider sounds like you," Waylon answers.  
  
They reach the main room, where the second hall splits off. The elevator doors stand open, frozen, lights off. There is shuffling from the rooms, distant wailing, crying from staff and patients huddling in their rooms and hoping it will pass.  
  
"We can try the stairwell down on the other side of the building," Chris says. "We will probably die there. But there are no options."  
  
Waylon follows him around the main reception desk, slippers squeaking in the blood, and then freezes.  
  
Crouched under the desk, head to her knees and hands wrapped around her ears, is Dr. Lin. She's shaking hard, trying to muffle her breathing.  
  
Dr. Lin, who had gone along with all of their testing, all of their torture, fed him to wolves and then shamed him for surviving. Dr. Lin, who put that fucking photo in the desk drawer where Eddie would find it. Waylon's finger tips buzz. He feels a pulse in his throat, through his teeth.  
  
He could do it, he realizes. Easily.  
  
"Waylon," Miles says, from farther down the hall, and her head snaps up at that, and she sees him, standing feet from her. Her makeup is smeared down her face from where she's been crying, nose bright red and running down onto her blouse. She makes a hiccuping sound, like she wants to scream, but she's too afraid. He can see himself clearly through her eyes: those same unsettling red eyes in that pale, baby face, arms and chest soaked with blood. His face is calm, placid, the unrippled surface of a deep, black lake.  
  
"Are they here because you told them about me?" Waylon says, gesturing at the nearest dead soldier. She kicks against the floor with her sneakers, having done her no good in the end, trying to push herself further into the corner under the desk. She can't answer, in her state of shock.  
  
"We don't have time," Miles says as Chris lowers him to stand shakily on his own feet again. She glances at him, almost grateful, but he looks back at her coldly. "If you're going to kill her, just do it."  
  
She sobs. There's an acrid smell in the air, and Waylon realizes she's likely pissed herself.  
  
Waylon would have liked to hurt her. The thing inside him that hurts at being separated from Eddie wants to.

But she's so familiar. He had thought she was Lisa, the first moments he saw her.

He thinks of himself, in Mount Massive, crouching under desks, muffling his breath.  
  
"What generation are you?" he asks. "Chinese-American, right?"  
  
Dr. Lin sobs again, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. She nods, and her voice breaks as she forces the words out. "S-second. My... my mom... Please, oh god-"  
  
Waylon reaches down his thigh, and tugs the pant leg of his uniform up, revealing the black band of the ankle monitor. "That remote you were carrying around. That has a key that unlocks these too, right?"  
  
She's breathing open mouthed in deep gasps, eyes still streaming, widening at the sight of the band. She scrambles in her pocket, and pulls it out; the small black box. She makes no move to activate it; he imagines she's already tried, hiding under the desk and listening to the soldiers die, thumb jamming repeatedly on the small button, doing nothing to stop it. "Y-you hold it against the censor, and h-hold this button-" She holds it out, pushing it toward him. "It's yours, just, please-"  
  
Waylon steps forward and takes it, watching her shrink away from him in fear with some sick satisfaction. He feels the dark buzz creep at the corners of his vision. "If this kills me, the Walrider will re-identify you as a threat."  
  
"It's the truth, I swear-"  
  
He puts a foot up on the desk, balancing the computer in one hand, and glances at Miles. He nods grimly. Waylon does as she says.  
  
There's a click, and the band pulls free, and falls away, clacking to the floor. Waylon had imagined he'd be elated at this moment, but all he feels is the weight in his chest. He drops his foot to the floor, and turns to look at her again.  
  
"This isn't nearly as bad as what we lived through at Mount Massive," Waylon says, and she cries louder, pushing her face into her knees, shoulders shaking. "Remember that."  
  
He walks away.  
  
Chris leads the way further down the hall. Miles keeps glancing at Waylon as he limps along, not quite nervous, but not exactly relaxed.  
  
"What?" Waylon huffs, once they're out of earshot.  
  
"You can be real scary when you wanna be, you know?" Miles says with a lopsided grin. "You look cute, so people underestimate you. I sure did."  
  
Waylon grimaces, clutching the computer to his chest, the button for the ankle monitors clenched tight in his other fist.  
  
"It's not like I would have blamed you," Miles continues. "She knew a lot about what was going on, and she stuck around."  
  
"So did I," Waylon says hollowly. "Before." Miles bites his lips in response, as they near the stairwell. They pause when they near it, listening carefully, hearing only distant moans and screams.  
  
Waylon bends and uses the device to unlock Miles' ankle. "The Walrider could have cleared a lot of them out."  
  
Chris nods. "Murkoff wouldn't have sent in great numbers right away. They were essentially a scouting party. But there are likely many on the outside, surrounding the building."  
  
Waylon unlocks Chris next, then carefully stows the device in his pocket. For Eddie, he resolves.  
  
When Chris pushes open the door, it takes him putting his weight against it to force it open. They discover a mess of bodies here as well nearly blocking the door, and a distant shuffle on lower floors, backed up with authoritative shouting. The Walrider had indeed been here.  
  
"We go up," Chris says. "The farther we stay from Manera, the better."  
  
Miles grimaces as he picks his way forward through the mess of human bodies. "Do you think they'll fight? The Walriders, I mean."  
  
"I'd bet they already are," Waylon says. "On a microscopic level. There's no need to them to form the same shapes they use again the soldiers."  
  
"You think we'll win?"  
  
Waylon pauses. "At the rate they replicate, I think it'd be a stalemate. But they'll kill every other living thing in the area in the mean time."  
  
"Oh. Great. What was Murkoff's fucking plan with that?"  
  
"Most likely... to shoot you in your bed before the Walrider could emerge, hopefully severing the link and disabling it," Waylon answers.  
  
Miles flinches hard and rubs at his stomach. "So Manera is, what? The cleanup crew? Why is he cooperating with them anyway, wasn't he a patient?"  
  
Waylon shakes his head. "I don't know. It doesn't make sense."  
  
They push upward diligently. When they reach the last floor, there's an additional set of stairs to the roof.  
  
Waylon checks the database download. They got so sidetracked on the lower floor, it's nearly complete. No resident techie on hand at Blue Garden to stop him; it's almost disappointing. Waylon sits on the steps for a moment to rest his tired legs, settling the computer on his knees as he skims the downloaded data. Miles sits next to him as Chris peers through the narrow glass window at the door into the dark hall. They're in the hall containing the experimental machinery, the split room where he'd stood across from Eddie for the first time. He remembers how the man refused to look at him, how sharp his disinterest had felt.  
  
"It's not everything," Waylon murmurs to Miles. "But it's a lot. Patient files for everyone who made it here, all of the scan and test data and notes associated with each one. A lot of data from the Mount Massive experiments, but there's a lot redacted."  
  
"Murkoff didn't trust Blue Garden," Miles says. "It'll be enough. It has to be."  
  
Waylon nods, clenching and unclenching his fingers over the keyboard. Chris looks over at them. "This part of the floor appears deserted. We should take advantage and scout for a third exit. If there is none, we should push up to the roof. Seek access to a different part of the compound, an alternate way down."  
  
Miles nods. "Can we rest a minute?"  
  
Chris breathes in through his mouth, face blank as he sighs. "Alright."  
  
He doesn't think we're getting out anyway, Waylon thinks. An extra minute can't hurt in a hopeless situation. He flexes his fingers again. He thinks about Eddie.  
  
"You're thinking about Eddie," Miles says quietly. Waylon feels a chill through his body, the hairs along his spine standing straight. He can't know if it was Miles' intuition, or the nanotech. He swallows, and nods.  
  
"I'm sorry for that shit downstairs," Miles huffs. "I thought we were about to get out, you know, we couldn't have done it without you. I shouldn't have forced you to stay."  
  
"I'm pretty sure he hates me now," Waylon mutters, flexing his fingers again. The blood that's dried on there comes off in tiny flakes. "It wouldn't have mattered. I wasn't even worth _killing_. I doubt he'd listen to anything I have to say."  
  
Miles smirks, rubbing at his own hands, sticky with his own blood rather than strangers. "Waylon, that guy is head over heels for you. He might need some time but he's going to figure out that what the two of you had was genuine. Or as genuine as you can get, in this situation."  
  
"That's just it, though, isn't it?" Waylon says, chest twinging, the first warning sign of a panic attack. "What if it's not genuine? What if it's just the Walrider's programming?"  
  
Miles swallows, throat clicking. "You said yourself, we don't know-"  
  
"We don't know," Waylon says in a shaky whisper. "We don't. But I can't stop thinking about it. What if I don't love him at all? What if he doesn't love me? What if it's just something the Walrider needed from us? What if it reformed us to suit each other?"  
  
"You and I didn't fall in love," Miles points out. "Pretty much none of the other guys are fucking each other."  
  
"Without the influence of the Walrider," Waylon breathes, trying to swallow tears. "We wouldn't be together. He would have killed me."  
  
"Whether it's the Walrider or medication or therapy, does it matter? You said he's closer to sane than he's ever been in his whole life. He's making the most informed choices he's ever made. And he's been choosing you."  
  
"And I'm more crazy than I've ever been!" Waylon says, tears finally spilling over. Chris is looking at him, but he can't keep his voice down. "The things I've been thinking and doing, none of it's okay! What if it did that to me? To make me... Make me..."  
  
"Is it easier to think that the Walrider did that to you?" Miles asks slowly. "Or to accept that it's just... who you are, after what you've been through?"  
  
Waylon breathes wetly. Both are difficult. He doesn't know which would be harder.  
  
"And does it even matter?" Miles continues. "We're all linked with this thing. I'll be dead without it. Do we even... Do we WANT to be separated from it?"  
  
Waylon snorts again. "That definitely sounds like the Walrider talking."  
  
Miles sniffs, rubbing at his nose. "Maybe there's no difference anymore." He looks up at Waylon with those deep, human eyes. "Waylon, does he make you happy? Like, you're attracted to him, sure. And you have a 'need' for him that's honestly pretty dark, but you know, love looks like that sometimes. It brings out the ugly parts in us. I've done enough stories on the ugliness of humanity, I know how fucked up totally normal people can be. But... Does he make you lighter? Does he make the world brighter?"  
  
Waylon thinks about Eddie, rolling over him in the snow. The sound of his laugh. Holding him as he cried. Pushing into him, completing him. Standing with him, in the dark.

It feels huge in his chest, like his body is too small to contain it.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So does it matter where that feeling comes from?" Miles smiles, the charisma of his former self cutting through the sweat and blood and fear. "With the world of shit we're in, I say take it where you can get it."  
  
Waylon takes in a deep breath, holds it. He lets it out slowly. He releases his clenched fingers. The database has finished downloading.  
  
"We have to go back for him," Miles says knowingly.  
  
Waylon shakes his head, closing the lid of the laptop and handing it to Miles. " ** _I_** have to go back for him. _You_ have to get out. Someone does."


	41. Chapter 41

"Your best bet is the roof. But a modern building like this... the likelihood of an external fire escape is small," Chris Walker is saying as Waylon hands over the laptop to Miles.   
  
"I lost the power cord somewhere downstairs, but it has some battery left. Try not to use it unless you need it," Waylon says.  
  
"Honestly, I barely know my way around an email," Miles snorts. "I'm not going to be using it to hack any doors or whatever."  
  
Chris continues. "I really don't recommend splitting up."  
  
Waylon turns to him. "I have to try. If by some crazy stroke of luck we do get out, there's no way that we're going to get anyone useful out here fast enough to save anyone. They're just going to burn it down."  
  
Chris nods, notably not arguing.  
  
"And if the roof doesn't work out, I'll just double back and try to stealth my way down. I've done it before."  
  
"Mount Massive was a much more complex structure," Chris says. "There's no human-sized ventilation system in this one."  
  
Waylon and Miles both cut him a sharp look, wondering just how much the man remembers about his interactions with them both. But it's not worth pressing now. Miles grabs Waylon's shoulder, squeezing it. "Just stay alive, man."  
  
Waylon nods. Above them, Chris pushes open the roof door, scans the exterior, then motions him through.  
  
"Stay safe," he murmurs as Waylon slips by him and through the cracked door. Waylon doesn't look back.  
  
Outside, the snow storm has picked up again, dense flurries of huge white flakes obscuring everything outside of a few feet. He can't even make out the edges of the building from where he stands. The rubber surface of the roof is coated with thick ice and a good foot of snow. The wind is cutting this high up, blowing the snow in huge gusts across the surface, the flakes hitting him like thousands of icy needles. If the other Walrider came for him up here, Waylon thinks, he wouldn't even see it coming.  
  
He feels an instant wave of panic. It's been days since he's been completely alone, and the conflicted mess of thoughts in his head threatens to overwhelm him as he finds himself with no outward distractions. There's fear for Eddie, and fear that Eddie won't even want to see him. There's the familiar guilt, but also, a surprising relief; the lies he told are exposed, and he doesn't have to maintain them anymore.   
  
There's also anger. An astonishing, nearly all-encompassing anger. Fucking _Murkoff_.  
  
He takes a deep breath, focuses on orienting himself on the layout of the floors below him, and then cautiously moves in what he thinks is the direction of the bridge that connects this building to the second. He finds the edge as he moves, and crouches low in case the snow suddenly clears and someone tries to take a shot at him. The snow wets his pant legs, sticking them icily to his skin, and the cold starts to freeze the still wet blood on the sleeves of his sweater, and the sweat sitting on his skin. The wind roars in his ears, and every few minutes he could swear he hears a distant shout of the men surrounding the building on the ground, prepared to swarm.  
  
He hits a corner, looking down. He can only see a few feet below him, and it's just sheer brick, unscalable. He has no idea if the bridge is really below him, or if he got his directions mixed up. It would be three floors below him, and he can barely see three feet.  
  
He moves along the edge of the building, straining for a glimpse of _anything_ below him, when his hands encounter cold metal. He peers over the edge, and breathes in sharply, almost a laugh, burning his lungs on the cold air.   
  
A narrow ladder, hugging tight to the building and coated in ice, stretches down into the white below.  
  
Not even hesitating, he scrambles over the edge and onto the icy iron. It holds fast, but his feet slide on the surface of each rung, and he feels a sudden jolt as he visualizes himself slipping and falling, snapping his neck, or bashing his skull in, bleeding out on the roof where they wouldn't find him until the storm cleared, if then. He shakes himself mentally, fingers already freezing to the metal as he grips it tightly, and descends.  
  
It feels like descending Everest. A long painful stretch, not knowing how close he is to the bottom, trying not to fall to his death.  
  
But then he hits another surface, and looks out over the bridge. It's narrow; he can almost make out either edge as he stands in the center, and he crouches low and crosses quickly for fear of being spotted. Between the buildings, the wind dies down, and sound carries more easily. He hears his own slippered feet crunching through the snow and layers of ice on the rubber surface. He hears, for certain now, the distant shout of military authority.  
  
There is a matching ladder on the other side, but he doesn't take time to thank his luck, grappling onto it quickly. Scaling it upward is less terrifying, particularly because it only ascends a floor; the building housing the cafeteria is shorter, only three stories.   
  
Less ground to cover to get downstairs to Eddie, he thinks. If he's still there. In this time, he could have fled upward from the sound of gunshots and carnage that must have echoed down the halls to him. Waylon needs to find a door.  
  
As he pulls himself over the edge and moves further onto the rooftop, he hears more shouting, echoing, but closer. He moves forward in a crouch, breathing heavily. He wonders if they've discovered him, if there are men already on the roof with him, from how close they sound.   
  
Then he finds an edge, and realizes he's stumbled over the courtyard, a square, sheer drop three stories to the ground. The tops of the evergreens stand out in dark spikes through the blizzard. The wind cuts sharp over the mouth of the opening, but inside, he can see through the whipping snow that it's quieter, the snow drifting more lazily. He can see the snow-covered ground below, the buried benches, the mound on the basketball court. The door is propped open, the light from inside slicing a bright swath across the dark snow. He can hear the authoritative voices of the three armored men standing below, echoing up the walls to him. Waylon sucks a breath between his teeth, his chest lurching.  
  
They're standing in a semicircle, guns up and pointed towards Eddie Gluskin, his back against the brick wall.  
  
The thickly falling snow partially obscures them, but even from this distance and angle, Eddie is unmistakeable. He's clutching the tablet in both hands in front of him, the brightness of the screen illuminating his face. The files he'd carried with him are scattered across the snowy ground. He's all but ignoring the three men who are pointing their weapons at his head from several feet away. One of them is shouting, his voice carrying up through the quiet courtyard.  
  
"-t on your stomach on the ground and put your hands on your head! If you do not comply we will shoot!"  
  
Eddie doesn't respond. Waylon stares wide eyed, begging him silently to comply, if only to keep him alive long enough for Waylon to find a way down to reach him.  
  
"You have five seconds, Gluskin!" the man roars.  
  
Eddie keeps his eyes fixed on the screen. From this angle, Waylon can't read his expression, only seeing the tops of his eyebrows and his nose. But Waylon remembers his story about when the men came to take him to the Engine for the first time, when they put him on the ground naked, vulnerable and helpless in the face of their systematic authority.  
  
Eddie won't lie down, Waylon realizes. He'll die before he lies down again.  
  
The man's arm shifts on his rifle, and Waylon's moving without thought, rounding the corner of the courtyard, toward the basketball court. In retrospect, he thinks later, he should have gone for the trees.  
  
He doesn't even hesitate as he kicks off from the edge of the building and is swallowed by open air, the snow flurrying and swirling in his wake. He aims for the hill of snow on the court, hoping it will be soft, just enough to keep him alive and mobile after falling three stories.   
  
It occurs to him, as he falls, that he might have done this in the past, trying to escape danger. But almost definitely not diving into it.  
  
He lands in a violent jolt, feet coming in contact with the snow, denser than he would have hoped, then his ass and back, bruising force along the muscles of his back and spine. He rolls head over heels as he lands, tumbling down the side of the small hill. His leg, the one he has wounded in Mount Massive, starts to throb painfully, and he suspects he twisted his ankle. But he doesn't allow himself a moment to hesitate, pushing and sliding himself down the rest of the snow to land in a less than graceful heap on his hands and knees. He sucks in a ragged breath.  
  
The three men, startled by the sound of a body landing behind them, twist toward him, but their eyes are bad in the dark, relying on the bright illumination from the door. Waylon's clothes are lightly colored, his hair light, obscuring his shape against the white snow as they search frantically. One of the men turns his rifle towards the dark. "What the fuck was that?!"  
  
Eddie, very slowly, looks up. His eyes search, pupils refocusing, trying to see through the strip of light into the dark beyond. His expression is twisted, furious, agonized.  
  
Two of the men keep their guns on Eddie, and the third steps toward him, just past the edge of the light from the door, gun readied. Waylon moves.  
  
The pain in his ankle and back reduces to a dull throb as he launches himself forward, hoping that the cover of dark will be enough to get him close enough before the man fires his gun.   
  
It's nearly not, the soldier going wide eyed as he hears the shuffle of something racing toward him, and he raises his rifle and fires a spray of shots before Waylon reaches him. One catches Waylon in the side, an explosion of fiery pain that quickly dulls to the same ache as everything else, not even breaking his stride.   
  
Waylon bursts into the light, the dark red of the blood on his arms and the fingers of his clawed hands flashing and unmistakeable, and the man goes pale.   
  
He hears the other two men shout and then Waylon is on him, covering the ground faster than he would have thought possible, and he wraps his arm around the man's neck, pulling his body between himself and the other two. The man chokes and digs his fingers into Waylon's forearm, thrashing, trying to pull him or push him off, but it's futile. The bugs in Waylon's skin have stifled his pain reflex and are already eating their way into the flesh of the man's throat between his tight grip. His hands grow slippery with fresh blood. The man gags.  
  
Waylon hates him, this stranger. He looks over the shoulder of the dying man at the other two, catching sight of the Murkoff logo, and lets himself hate.  
  
Their eyes widen at the sight of his. "Which one is that? Fuck-" one of the guards is saying frantically, keeping his gun trained in Eddie's direction. The other swivels toward them, and moves closer, unaware that his fellow soldier is currently drowning in his own blood under Waylon's grip.  
  
"Release him!" he's shouting over the man's gagging, wet breaths. "Release him and lie down on the ground! RELEASE HIM, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"  
  
Then the blood bubbles up from the man's mouth and Waylon feels the man's heart shudder feebly. The other soldier's eyes grow wide. Waylon pushes the body forward and moves, hand snaking around and catching the end of the rifle, pushing it away.   
  
The soldier panics, fires, and Waylon's hand feels numb and hot from where it grips the barrel, but he doesn't release, yanking and pulling the man to him by the weapon. As the first body finally collapses, Waylon gets a hand up to the man's chest, fingertips tearing into the body armor like paper and pushing through the flesh and bone beneath, the bugs making it an easy slide. The man tries to pull away, shoving at Waylon's shoulders and face with the heels of his hand, but he's locked in, Waylon's hand already up under his ribs, shredding the meat of his lungs. Waylon pulls him close, and looks into his frightened eyes.  
  
"Henry-!" the third soldier yells, and then there's a wet crack. Waylon looks around the shoulder of the man he's buried wrist deep in, and sees the third soldier slumping to the snow. The man had been too distracted, and Eddie had slipped out of the sightline of his gun, lurched forward, wrapped his arms around his head and broken his neck, killing him instantly.  
  
The man in Waylon's arms breathes his last and then slips from Waylon's hand to collapse in the snow, bleeding out. The bones of his ribs scrape against Waylon's hand as it pulls free, trailing viscera and gore. Waylon looks down at him dispassionately, the Murkoff logo standing out bright against the black of his uniform.  
  
He looks up at Eddie, and it's like a switch flips. Feeling returns slowly. His spine aches and his ankle is swelling. The wound in his side where the bullet clipped him is bleeding sluggishly. His hand feels raw and hot where he'd held onto the barrel of the gun.  
  
"Fuck," Waylon says, voice shaking. "Fuck, what did I just- Holy shit."  
  
Silhouetted against the light from the door, Eddie's face is hard to read. It's still twisted, furious, his posture looming and angry. Nothing Waylon didn't expect. Waylon tries to collect himself, not sure where to begin. Then Eddie steps to the side and retrieves the small tablet from where it had fallen in the snow.  
  
In the sudden silence, Waylon catches a snippet of the sound from the screen. His heart leaps in his chest, and his windpipe closes. The sound of Lisa's sobbing voice carries over the snow for a moment before Eddie switches it off.   
  
Eddie lifts a hand and wipes at his face. Waylon realizes his expression is twisted in more than anger. He thinks it might reflect his own feeling at hearing the sound from that video again. The sound of his wife and children being murdered on camera by Murkoff agents.  
  
"Why are you here?" Eddie growls, as if the two of them hadn't just easily murdered three heavily armed men together.  
  
Waylon forces the air into his throat, if only to form words. "Murkoff's here," he gasps. "We need to go."  
  
"Then you should have gone," Eddie mumbles, stepping back into the shadow of the trees near the wall, eyes on the ground, looking at the fallen papers there. Waylon mirrors him, slipping out of the bright light from the hall and into the dark. The three bodies lie in the long rectangle of light, blood bright as it seeps into the snow. He strains his ears, listening for any hint that they'd been heard, but the hall inside is quiet.  
  
"They have a second Walrider," Waylon forces himself to say. "They'll kill all of us."  
  
"You should have gone," Eddie says, crouching and digging a hand in the snow, pulling a slip of paper free. "Why didn't you go?"  
  
Tears threaten to spill over, but Waylon holds onto them, clenching his hands tightly and letting his fingernails bite into his palms. "I... I couldn't leave you."  
  
Eddie turns toward him, and he's so _angry_. Waylon can barely stand the sight of him so angry. It nearly triggers his reflex to run and hide, and he has to plant his feet deliberately, focusing on his breathing. He wants this. He wants Eddie to lose his temper, to hit him, to choke him, anything but _leave_ him.  
  
"WHY?" Eddie snarls. "You were free of me! Isn't that what you wanted?!"  
  
"What? No, I-"  
  
"I _remember_ ," Eddie hisses, and despite his ferocity, there's a brightness to his eyes in the dark, the glisten of tears on his eyelids and cheeks. "I found the video you took, in the asylum, and I... I remember _all of it_."  
  
Waylon shudders, and it feels like the room pitches to the side. He finds the wall with his palm and presses a shoulder to it. A scene comes back to him in vivid detail, the gymnasium, the roar of the rigging when it snapped, the wet, metallic sound of the piping spearing through Eddie's guts, the rough texture of his hand. _We could have been beautiful._ "You remember what I... what I did."  
  
Eddie sniffs loudly, wiping his face with his palm, pressing his fingertips to his eyelids. "I remember what **_I_** did."  
  
Waylon shakes his head, confused. "You... You were sick, you didn't-"  
  
"I nearly KILLED you! I tried to _cut your cock off_!" the man says, taking a menacing step forward, shoulders rolled up tight. "I hurt so many people... I tied you naked to that table and I... Fuck, I..."  
  
Waylon's mouth works over silent syllables, but he doesn't know what to say. He hadn't expected this.  
  
"And then I tried to _hang_ you. Then... then I wake up and all I can think about is _you_. Finding you. And when I find you, I try to _fucking strangle you!_ " A sob cracks Eddie's voice, and he slumps heavily against the wall. "You were so afraid of me... I could tell, but I couldn't figure out why you were so afraid..."  
  
"Eddie-"  
  
"When you let me... I wouldn't have forced you, I wouldn't have, I know it," Eddie says, shoulders curling in, clutching the tablet to his chest. "You shouldn't have let me do those things to you. Just because you were afraid. God, I... Why did you _let_ me- How could you even bear to let me _touch_ you-"  
  
Eddie slips to his knees in the snow, wet sobs catching at his breath. Waylon watches him, his heart aching.  
  
"Eddie," he says, and when the man doesn't cut him off, he continues. "I wanted you to."  
  
The man shakes his head violently. "No, you were terrified, you were-"  
  
"I told you once," Waylon says breathlessly. "I like it when it hurts a little."  
  
"You had a _wife_ ," Eddie wails in agony, as if the words are cutting their shapes on his tongue.   
  
"It was complicated-"  
  
"You had _children_. God, god, your _children_ -"  
  
Waylon's tongue catches against his teeth as Eddie lifts the tablet, along with the slip of paper. Waylon can see now that it's the photo of his family, wet and wrinkled. He mirrors Eddie, slipping down to his knees in the cold snow. The sound of his dead wife's voice echoes through the coils in his brain. He wants to offer an excuse, something to convince Eddie to leave with him, but he can't bring himself to, with the memory of them in the air. His sweet Lisa and his two small boys.  
  
"I thought they destroyed that video," Waylon murmurs miserably. "It was... a relief. I never wanted to see it again."  
  
"Why weren't you there with them?" Eddie says, eyes wide and angry. "Why weren't you _protecting_ them?"  
  
"I..." Waylon flinches like he's been slapped. He swallows hard. "I sent an email to a reporter, to Miles, telling him about what was happening in Mount Massive. Murkoff found me out, and they locked me up as a patient. I didn't even know they were g-gone..." Waylon pauses to catch his breath. "I found out when I escaped. A... Only a couple weeks ago."  
  
Eddie looks down into the snow again, face unreadable. Their breaths come loud in the quiet courtyard. Waylon looks at the open door and the bodies of the soldiers; thoughts of escape are distant as he relives finding the video.  
  
"What were their names?" Eddie says quietly.  
  
Waylon's throat works, thick and tight. "The eldest was Noah Jae. He liked dinosaurs, particularly the Carnotaurus, because of his 'cool eyebrows'." His voice breaks and he makes a pained sound deep in his chest, remembering holding the baby for the first time, the long nights of teaching him how to sleep, the miraculous feeling when the boy started to string together language. "The littlest was Liam Yeong. He said he liked dinosaurs too because he looked up to Noah, but secretly he liked dogs. We were going to get him one on his... On his tenth-" He remembers the boy's face looking up at him, small fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt, wearing an almost constant bewildered expression.  
  
They were his whole life, only months ago. They were everything. Now all he has are static in his brainwaves, ever rewriting itself.  
  
Waylon presses a bloody hand over his mouth. He hadn't let himself think about them for so long. Even inside, he hadn't wanted to bring the memory of them into that place. And he knows that the longer he lives, the more they'll fade, and so if he doesn't think about them, he won't notice how the edges have gone dark, how the details of their faces are all just a little bit less sharp each day.  
  
Eddie hums, and Waylon snaps back to the present, the pair of them hunched in the cold snow. The wind above them is picking up. Eddie is still staring at the photograph, thumb stroking back and forth over the laminate.  
  
"I'm sorry," Eddie says quietly. "For... For that. And for what I... What I've done."  
  
Waylon rubs his cold tears from his cheeks. He knows he's striping them with blood. "I took advantage of you. I knew you didn't remember any of it and so I used that for my own benefit. I lied to you. I would have kept lying."  
  
Eddie flinches. "I... _raped_ you..."  
  
"You didn't do anything to me that I didn't want you to. Sexually, I mean," Waylon says.  
  
"You had a wife-"  
  
"I'm bisexual," Waylon says, the words difficult in his mouth. He's afraid that Eddie won't understand the complexity of it, but he's done with avoiding explanations. "I like men _and_ women. She and I had an arrangement, with... with other men-" Eddie's head snaps up at that, mouth twisted in distaste. "We were adults, and we both wanted to. Marriage isn't some holy, sacred union, Eddie. It's... letting another person know all of your dark secrets, all of the little fucked up things about yourself that you can't let other people know. And accepting each other anyway." Waylon swallows hard. "I liked having sex with those men. I liked letting them hurt me. And she liked to watch them hurt me, because she loved me and what made me feel good made her feel good. And then we agreed to stop, because we had two wonderful little kids. But neither of us genuinely wanted to _stop_."  
  
Eddie is still glaring at him, face a mask of disbelief.  
  
"See," Waylon says, tears dripping from his chin as he cracks an embarrassed, self-deprecating grin. "All the fucked up little things."  
  
Eddie tries to hold his expression, but as Waylon watches, it crumbles, his bright blue eyes drifting to the side, overwhelmingly sad. "I couldn't have... I would never have shared you."  
  
Waylon wipes away more tears, and tries to keep smiling. "I know."  
  
Slowly, Eddie extends his arm, holding the photograph out to him. Waylon has to inch forward to reach it, turning it to look into their faces, properly, for the first time. He was afraid of what he would see. But he sees no judgement there. They're dead. They'd never know.   
  
"You should go," Eddie says quietly, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the brick, as if exhausted. They're close enough now that Waylon can smell him, the salt of his sweat and tears. "Before they find you."  
  
"Come with me," Waylon says.  
  
Eddie frowns, but doesn't move. "No, I think... I think this is where it ends for me."  
  
Waylon feels despair bubble up from his stomach. For a moment, he wonders if it's the nanotech, demanding he salvage this relationship so that it can maintain its network. But he recalls then what Dr. Lin told him last, about comparing his feelings for Eddie to his feelings for his family, to differentiate a real love from a false one.  
  
It doesn't feel any different.  
  
"I can't..." He gulps, pressing the photo to his chest. "I..."  
  
"If you're here out of some misplaced sense of guilt, you can let it go," Eddie says, turning against the wall and sitting down in the snow, back against the brick, forearms braced on his knees, the tablet hanging loosely from his fingertips. "I forgive you. It's nothing worse than what I did, and nothing I... I didn't deserve."  
  
"It's not that," Waylon says. "I... Eddie, when I lost them, I... I didn't want to live anymore. The only thing that kept me alive was the idea that I had to expose Murkoff. Even when I got here, the only reason that I didn't give up, at first, was that getting out was the only way I could show the world the truth about what happened to them. What happened to all of us, in there. But then, with you... As you got better, you treated me like I was precious. Loved. And the more you gave me, the more I craved it. That's why I lied about us being married. Because I couldn't bear not being close to you in that way."  
  
Eddie is looking at him now, face a mix of confusion.  
  
"I was going to tell you the truth, when we got out. Or at least, I was telling myself that. But not because... not because I wanted to be apart from you."  
  
Waylon inches closer, but he doesn't dare touch the other man, knowing that he could pour out his whole heart and still walk away with nothing. "People would think I'm crazy, maybe you think so too, but... At some point, I fell in love with you, Eddie Gluskin. Truly."  
  
Eddie searches his face, and Waylon can only hope he reads the sincerity there. His throat bobs under the strong line of his chin, mouth flattening. "Almost certainly crazy," he says. "I'm a monster, Waylon. I want to hurt people, all the time. I enjoyed... hurting you. It'd happen, again and again."  
  
"Eddie, I just murdered two people to protect you," Waylon says, sniffing. "And every time someone tried to step between you and me all I wanted to do was kill them. If you're a monster, so am I."  
  
"I thought we were getting better," Eddie says quietly, eyes dark and vast. "I thought it would all stop, once I got better..."  
  
Waylon shakes his head. "The nanotech is making us more rational. But it can't erase trauma. I don't think either of us will ever be... better. But... it doesn't matter to me. I've lost too much trying to be selfless. I want to be selfish for once." Waylon snuffles again, whispering. "If you let yourself be selfish, Eddie, what would you take?"  
  
Eddie grimaces, turning his head away. "Waylon-"  
  
"You said you wouldn't share me," Waylon presses, voice trembling. "You could have that. If you still wanted it."  
  
"No, no-" Eddie growls, pushing himself up from the wall, looming over him like a storm. "You think you know what you're asking but you don't. I don't trust myself with you-"  
  
"I've been with you for a week," Waylon says, following him up, bracing himself against the wall and ignoring the throb in his ankle and side. "I know what being with you entails. Once you learned where the line was, you always stopped yourself."  
  
"You can't know that I would always stop!" Eddie growls, all teeth, and then suddenly he's got his broad hand around Waylon's throat.   
  
There's pressure, lifting him nearly off his feet, bruising but not enough to choke him. Waylon gasps at the contact. Shamefully, he feels his cock twitch in his pants.   
  
"When I'm with you, I feel like I'm falling," Eddie is saying, pushing Waylon against the wall and pressing his body close, and god, Waylon had missed having him close, even for the short time they'd been apart. "Out of control. How can you think I wouldn't go too far? I would. The kinds of things I would do to you, the _suffering_ I would have you endure-"  
  
"Please-" Waylon gasps, and Eddie snarls, furious.   
  
Waylon hears the quiet thud of the tablet hitting the snow, and then Eddie turns him, shoving him belly-first against the wall, hand still possessively wrapped around the fragile column of his throat. Eddie pushes his hips up against Waylon's ass, and Waylon can feel the hot, hard shape of him there. Eddie huffs against his ear. "Do you think I'm not capable of it? I could fuck you right here in this courtyard. I could tear you open. That's the man you claim to _love_."  
  
Waylon groans. "You can hurt me if you need to prove something to yourself. But you can't change how I feel about you."  
  
Eddie roughly pushes down Waylon's damp pants, exposing his ass to the cold air. Waylon becomes acutely aware of the corpses in the snow behind them, of the open door through which any number of people could be lurking. Then Waylon feels the head of Eddie's cock bump his chapped skin, slipping down the cleft of his cheeks and then pressing, hard, against his tight, dry hole.   
  
In all his years of experience, Waylon had never done this. There were fantasies, sure, but he'd heard enough horror stories about fissures, hemorrhaging and infection to know better. Yet, he spreads his thighs as wide as they can go and cants his hips back receptively. If it's the only way he can have him, the last time he can have him, then he intends to take him.   
  
"You don't scare me anymore," Waylon says, and it's true, even as Eddie's cock head wedges itself harder against his opening, almost hard enough to breech.  
  
The fingers on his throat tighten, and behind him, Eddie _sobs_.  
  
"I'd _ruin_ you," the man says, pressing his face into Waylon's hair.   
  
" _Please_ ," Waylon answers.  
  
Without warning, Eddie's hand drops from his throat, and he's pushed hard against the wall, as Eddie slides his hand down his clothed spine to the small of his back, where he presses and holds. Waylon's dick bumps the brick, hard and leaking, just as Eddie goes to his knees behind him and wedges his face between his ass cheeks, tongue licking a broad stripe over his hole before pointing and pushing in without preamble.  
  
Waylon gasps and pushes up on his toes, the stimulation almost too much, too good, after the brief pain. Eddie slurps at him wetly, entirely inexperienced, and Waylon wishes he could see him properly, valiantly tonguing Waylon's hole and pushing as much spit into him as his salivary glands can produce. Spit makes a poor lube for anal, drying too quickly in the air, but Eddie makes a good go of it, pushing a finger in alongside his tongue, then another, then another.  
  
The moment Waylon is sure he can take a cock without causing damage, he swings an arm around and claws at Eddie's hand, still holding him to the wall. "Now," he grunts. "Now, now, n-"  
  
Eddie obliges, pushing up and laying his body tight against Waylon's, his chin tucked over Waylon's head, pectorals pressed to his shoulder blades, holding him still as he directs his fat cock to Waylon's barely prepared hole and pushes in, hard.  
  
It aches as the glans pop through his sphincter, damp skin catching against damp skin in a way the lube never allowed, and they both hiss in pain. "Is this what you wanted?" Eddie grunts as he pushes in hard to the base, stomach fitting against the small of Waylon's back, cock lodging itself in his intestines.  
  
"Yeah," Waylon says without hesitation, pressing his forehead to the cold, rough brick. "Yeah."  
  
Eddie nearly roars, and Waylon wonders at the miracle that has kept more men from appearing in the door behind them as Eddie plants his hands on the back of Waylon's neck and the curve of his spine and begins to fuck him at a grueling pace, the cold air catching in the wet of Eddie's spit and carrying a chilling burn into his ass on each thrust. Waylon doesn't bother to ask permission as he spits into his own hand and fists his cock, and Eddie doesn't stop him, too busy biting at Waylon's ears, the side of his face and neck, groaning deeply.  
  
"You _killed_ those men for me," Eddie says into Waylon's ear, muffled by the cartilage he's pulled between his teeth and refuses to relinquish. "You looked like an angel. Biblical. Divine. You look so beautiful in red, Darling..."  
  
"I would do it a thousand times," Waylon gasps, and then his orgasm twists his gut unexpectedly, bowing him away from the wall in its intensity, splattering the brick. Eddie howls, wrapping his arms tight around Waylon's belly and hips, almost lifting him as his anus contracts. Then Eddie is pushing deep, and there's the wet hot flood of Eddie's release in his gut.   
  
The pulse of it is so strong, Waylon swears he can feel it travel through his whole body, the heat of it settling in his chest, clinging to his heart and lungs. He envisions the mortuary where they would autopsy him, after all of this, the doctor sawing the Y-incision in his ribcage, and finding all of the organs of his body swollen with Eddie's seed.  
  
"Fuck," he groans, and then snorts a laugh, because, fuck.  
  
Eddie's arms tighten around him, and then his face appears in the corner of Waylon's eye, shadowed but bright eyed, frighteningly adoring. "I would do the same for you. You know that. I would kill everyone who wronged you."  
  
Waylon's chest heaves as he nods, remnants of his orgasm still billowing through him.   
  
"I tried to give you an opportunity, to escape this," Eddie continues. "But you had to tempt me. Little _minx_." Eddie thrusts his softening cock in Waylon's sloppy hole, rolling his hips, making wet sounds, semen dripping onto the snow. Waylon whines and takes it, pushing back against him. Eddie pulls him close, and whispers, directly against his ear. "If you're mine, you're only mine. And forever. Could you really bear that?"  
  
" ** _Please._** "  
  
Eddie makes a sound akin to a wail. Waylon thinks if the man could get hard again, he would, cock pulsing another stream of come into him before it's too soft to penetrate him anymore, slipping free in a gush of liquid. An ache is already forming, but no worse than his ankle, or the gunshot wound in his side. Then Eddie just grips him tight and holds him, huffing deep, warm breaths into his hair. Waylon presses his palms against the brick, still holding the photo of his old family in the hand he hasn't just jerked off with.  
  
"Marry me," Eddie says, like he can't control himself. "After we've escaped this hell. Marry me, legally and freely. Waylon. Darling."  
  
Waylon dry sobs against the brick. "Yes. Yes."


	42. Chapter 42

They're forced apart after a long moment by the distant thunder of boots. Eddie pushes away first, tucking his cock away as Waylon turns, almost bashful, hiking his own pants and underwear back up. His hole flutters, and he knows he's going to leak for hours.  
  
"Did I hurt you?" Eddie asks. He looks better, his scarred face still red from crying, eyes puffy, but the deep, intense rage has all but disappeared from his eyes. He looks troubled, eyebrows pinched together, shadowing his gaze, but also, hopeful.  
  
Waylon smiles crookedly, despite the nearing sound of the soldiers. "Just the right amount," he huffs.  
  
Eddie looks like he's fighting a smile, mouth twitching, but then he gives up, flashing his teeth. It's so wide, it crinkles his eyes, in a way that Waylon can't really remember seeing before. Elated.  
  
His heart skips. Eddie knows the truth. He knows everything. And he still chose him.  
  
God, he just agreed to _marry_ him. Waylon decides to think about the consequences of _that_ later.  
  
"I suppose we should be going then," Eddie says lightly; it'd be almost flirtatious, if it weren't for the tremble in his voice, still putting himself back together after their talk. He steps over and retrieves one of the assault rifles from the bodies. Waylon pauses as he looks down at the dropped tablet, remembering that Eddie mentioned watching HIS video on it. He scoops it up and pushes it into his pocket, evidence in case something happens to the laptop, along with the photo of Lisa and the boys. The scattered files are irretrievable, soaked through.   
  
"You know how to use that?" he asks, stepping closer, ear cocked toward the open door.  
  
Eddie grins crookedly at him, and Waylon's heart sings. To think, he'd almost lost this. "Not at all." Then he picks his way over to the door and pushes it shut, wedging the long gun into the handles, barring it closed, just as Waylon picks up the thudding of boots in the stairwell near the elevator. They're plunged into blackness, eyes quickly adjusting, details in the dark becoming much clearer without the light pollution.  
  
"I don't know another way out of here," Waylon says nervously, moving quickly away from the door as the boots approach the other side. Eddie is already moving toward the far end of the courtyard, where another, much more sturdy looking single door stands out against the dark brick, no handle and flush to the wall. Waylon had never seen it open, assuming it locked from inside.   
  
"Perhaps you can try using that little trick with your hands on it?" Eddie says, setting his shoulder to it. "Against the lock, here."  
  
"I haven't used it on anything inorganic," Waylon says nervously as he hears the soldiers trying to force the door behind them. "And I don't control it, entirely."  
  
"Well, we can try to climb the trees if this doesn't work," Eddie says. "But it's worth a try, isn't it?"  
  
Waylon puts his hands to the steel plate where the lock would be, trying to summon the skin-tingling feeling of the nanomachines. There's nothing, for a long minute, until one of the soldiers puts his boot to the door in an attempt to break it open, and suddenly Waylon's hand sink into the steel like it's powder. It ruptures, breaking apart like brittle chocolate as the nanotech destabilizes and cracks it apart, leaving a ragged hole. Eddie steps back and gives the door a hard ram with his shoulder, and it pops open.  
  
Heaving a sigh of relief, they stumble in out of the snow. They're both soaked, and Waylon feels himself starting to shiver. The room they're in appears to be an equipment room, loaded with sports hardware. The door is too damaged to bar closed, so Eddie tips a heavy metal locker over in front of it. They can't hide their escape, but hopefully it will slow the other men down.  
  
The door exiting the room isn't locked, and they emerge into a wide, clean room on the ground floor. Floor to ceiling windows line the far wall, showing the snow piled high and the winds whipping outside. It appears to be some kind of extra recreation room, with ping pong tables and softly glowing vending machines, and a huge entertainment center with video games. Outside, through the snow, Waylon can barely make out the shapes of trees and fixtures he thinks belong to a garden, and past it, the tall wall separating them from the trees.  
  
"They didn't want us looking out these windows," Waylon says as Eddie wedges the door closed behind them. "Must be why they kept us locked out of these rooms."  
  
"They didn't want anyone smashing these windows, which would have almost certainly happened," Eddie says, staying near to the wall and herding Waylon around toward the cafeteria.   
  
The building on this half of the complex is donut shaped, the courtyard in the center, with the cafeteria on the second floor to the right of the bridge. The bottom floor is open almost all the way around, making them feel exposed as they round the corners, seeing more darkened landscape outside of the large windows. Through the blizzard, Waylon can make out the dark shape of what he suspects is the parking complex he saw when he tried to flee out the front door. There are lights through the drifts in that direction, and he'd bet there's only one way in and out of the wall that surrounds the complex, directly behind those lights. He tells Eddie as much.  
  
There's a door leading to a staircase partway around, and Waylon pauses at a large map, revealing the layout of the complex. "They must have removed these from the areas they're keeping us in." He puts his fingers down, tracing the map. The bottom floor was recreation, the second, the cafeteria, and a lounge area for visitation. The top floor held a gym, and notably, a door to the roof. Waylon glances quickly at the other map, noting with mild interest that the top floor was originally part of the expanded medical wing. He also notices that there are only two emergency staircase in either building. Miles and Chris have no escape route, he realizes. Not unless they take the roof, like he did.  
  
"Darling," Eddie murmurs, surveying the far wall. "There's an exit. Perhaps we should make a break for the parking complex before they-"  
  
Around the corner, there's a bang as the soldiers reach the last door.  
  
"Upstairs," Waylon says quickly. "If we don't bar the door, they won't know which way we've gone."  
  
Eddie looks uncertain, but he nods, pushing through the door ahead of Waylon. Eddie takes the stairs in long strides, pausing at each landing for Waylon to catch up. Waylon's ankle has started to hurt again, and he presses a hand to his side where the bullet had caught him, hoping it's stopped bleeding. They reach the third floor, and Waylon realizes the door to the roof is no more than a hatch in the high ceiling. They'd need a ladder to reach it. "Shit."  
  
Below them, the door on the first floor clicks open, and Eddie is already moving, silently opening the door to the third floor and ushering Waylon through. He closes it quietly behind them, and they shuffle carefully through the new room, following along the wall.  
  
"We should hide," Waylon whispers. The floor is similar to the first, open with wide windows. There are a set of stationary bikes and treadmills lining the windows to one direction, with weight lifting equipment and wide mats for yoga and stretching in the other direction. Along the walls are doors to restrooms and locker rooms, and closets for equipment. They slip through the first door they reach, Waylon leading the way, and find themselves in the women's lockers. In the back is a small maintenance closet full of extra supplies, and they pile in on top of each other in the narrow space. The door has no lock, and so Eddie wedges a nearby mop between the door and the far wall. Not enough to really keep anyone out, but perhaps enough to deter a search.  
  
Waylon slouches against the wall, panting. Eddie frowns, leaning against the shelving. Quietly, Waylon says, "They don't have enough people to secure the whole area or they would have already done it. If we wait a few minutes, they could pass us by."  
  
"Or corner us," Eddie hisses. Suddenly, his eyes widen in the dark, darting down to Waylon's side. "Darling, are you hurt?"  
  
"They clipped me earlier," Waylon says, and carefully pulls his shirt and sweater away to look properly at the wound. It's not bleeding much any longer, but not insignificant, like someone had taken a bite out of him. Eddie gasps and makes a grab for the neatly folded towels on the shelf behind him. "It looks worse than it feels."  
  
"You shouldn't have let me have sex with you while you were hurt, Waylon," Eddie growls, trying to wipe some of the blood surrounding the wound. Waylon's whole body is spattered in it now, his arms and down the front of his shirt.  
  
"I barely noticed it until now, honestly," he says, only partly untrue. "At least, it didn't hurt that much until now.  
  
Eddie gives him a scolding look, and Waylon buttons his lips, letting Eddie clean around the wound.  
  
There's a shout in the distance, muffled talking, and then a shuffle outside, the sound of boots. Eddie straightens, moving silently to stand behind the door beside Waylon, in case it's broken open. Waylon hopes, feeling a sudden chill, that he hadn't dripped any blood to reveal their trail.  
  
Thankfully, it doesn't seem to be the case. There's a bit more shuffling as the boots stomp through, then a heavy sigh. Then the boots thunk away, and they can hear the muffled sound of the man speaking into his radio. Waylon breathes out slowly. Eddie keeps watch for a minute or two longer, until all they hear is silence, before returning to Waylon's wound.  
  
"I think we should return to the first floor and make our way to the parking garage," Eddie whispers.   
  
Waylon thinks of Miles. "The others will come this way when they realize there's no way down on their side. Either this stairwell or the one near the elevator. We should give them a few minutes."  
  
Eddie groans. "Again with the- Ugh, fine. But if they don't appear in a few minutes, they can make their own way."  
  
Waylon nods, grimacing. "You'll be happy to know there's a good chance they're dead, anyway. They were cornered."  
  
The other man slows his dabbing, contemplative. "Just because I don't like your friend doesn't mean I wish for him to die."  
  
Waylon grins. "That's sweet." Eddie gives him a look that manages to be both stern and fond, and then sighs, tossing the bloody cloth to the floor, pressing a fresh one over the wound and holding it tight as the blood slowly clots and stops completely.  
  
"I really missed you," Waylon says, because he can't not say it.   
  
Eddie flushes, and that look returns, the one that makes Waylon feel valuable, cherished. Waylon leans forward and kisses him then, gentle and sweet, and Eddie sighs heavily as he reciprocates, his eyes fluttering closed.  
  
They kiss for long minutes, losing themselves in the slow glide of tongue and tooth and lip. Waylon runs his fingertips over Eddie's face, feeling the ridges of his cheekbones under the rough skin, the flex of his jaw as he opens wider for Waylon's tongue.  
  
"I think I figured something out, Darling," Eddie says, smiling, as they finally pull apart.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"You love me, even after the things that I've done to you. You've even liked some of them-" He inhales sharply, teeth still bright and pearly in the dark. "That's the monster in you, isn't it. It's there, after all."  
  
Waylon swallows, chasing the taste of him on his lips with his tongue. "I never argued that it wasn't."  
  
Eddie kisses him again, hard, like he wants to sink into him. Waylon wonders if his mouth will bruise. He thinks that's fine.  
  
The quiet is thick around them. Waylon wonders if he should have suggested they go back for Miles and Chris, but he finds himself reluctant to push Eddie into danger. He doesn't know what he'd do if he lost him again, if he asked him to go back there out of some moral duty Waylon had held in what feels like a past life, and Eddie ended up in the grip of Frank's Walrider, or with a bullet in his skull.  
  
He knows they've waited long enough.  
  
Waylon pulls away. "Let's go." Eddie nods, and unbars the door.  
  
They creep back into the open gym, eyes searching for the softly glowing exit sign, Waylon closely following Eddie. Then Eddie stops short. Waylon bumps into him. "What-"  
  
In front of them, between them and the door to the stairs, is Dr. Clark.


	43. Chapter 43

Dr. Clark is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, almost casual. Her face is shadowed, severe. The circles under her eyes are heavier without makeup. She's wearing a suit similar to the first time he'd seen her, dark blue, the sleeves rolled up in the cuffs of her white button up.  
  
She smirks at them, pushes away from the wall, and that's when he sees the black shape of the handgun in one hand, and a remote control for the ankle monitors in the other. His blood chills, and he can't stop himself from cutting a glance sideways, catching sight of the black band of the monitor, still fixed around Eddie's ankle. He had forgotten about it. He had the key in his pocket and still, he'd forgotten about it.  
  
"The GPS network is still down," she says, following his gaze. "Nice work on that by the way, Park. But this thing still works at close range. So I wouldn't recommend trying anything."  
  
Waylon chills, thinking of Dr. Lin. She must not have known it could still work, or she would have killed him on the spot, he's sure. It hadn't even occurred to him.  
  
Eddie's rigid, breathing heavily through his nose, the tendons in his neck and forearms tight as he tries to rein himself in.   
  
"Well, look at the two of you," Dr. Clark says with a grin, eyes skimming up and down their bodies. Eddie moves further in front of Waylon, trying to block him from view. "When I put the two of you together, I was picturing _something_. But I didn't have quite enough imagination for... this." She gestures to them with the gun, eyes lingering on the red streaks on Waylon's arms and chest.  
  
Waylon feels numb. They were close, so close. He wonders if he could unlock the ankle monitor fast enough, but then, there's the gun. He wonders if he could reach her before she fired the gun, but then, there's the monitor. He grits his teeth. "You won't be able to kill both of us fast enough to save yourself. You just could walk away."  
  
She smiles at him again, a strange look in her eyes, shaking her head. "I never had any intention of walking away, Waylon Park."  
  
"You fucking cunt-" Eddie starts, but Waylon puts a hand on his arm before he can lurch forward.  
  
"I have to say, I miss the polite gentleman you were when you first woke up, even if it was all for show. Waylon's been a bad influence on you, Mr. Gluskin." When neither of them answer, her expression hardens, smile turning dangerous. "We should get down to business. I didn't really want to do the whole monologue thing, but Murkoff's forced my hand on this." She puts the hand holding the remote into her pocket, and fishes out a small black box, an external harddrive. She holds it up, the button still dangling from her thumb.  
  
"You already downloaded our database, I assume. Maybe you noticed a lot of that data was missing. Luckily, I've got it right here. All the good stuff, at least. Only thing I couldn't get are the specs for the Engine itself. I'm not sure anyone has those, really. Straight out of some old Nazi's brain." She's still smiling, but her eyes are sharp, assessing. "Also included is a full list of Murkoff employees. Names, socials, family members, home addresses. Which schools their kids go to."  
  
She holds it out. "It's yours."  
  
"What?" Waylon's brow furrows. "I don't get it."  
  
Eddie bares his teeth. "If you think bribery is going to earn you anything-"  
  
"That's not my intention," she says, dropping her arm, knowing neither is going to step forward and take it right away. "I know it will be difficult for you to accept, but I was always on your side."  
  
"Liar," Eddie hisses.   
  
Waylon shakes his head. "I agree with him. You're nuts if you think we'll believe that."  
  
Her voice is measured and ominous when she replies, "What did it look like when you turned your coat, Mr. Park? You were an employee of this company too, not so different from me. I do hope your _husband_ knows about that by now, by the way." Waylon swallows and shifts from foot to foot, guiltily avoiding looking at his husband. "The difference between you and me is that I knew what to expect before I went in. And I always had every intention of bringing Murkoff down."  
  
"How could you expect us to believe-"  
  
"About a decade ago, in one of Murkoff's early tests for the Engine," she says, voice going hard, and then, chillingly soft. "They killed my sister." Her face shifts as she speaks, eyes distant and almost warm, and overwhelmingly, unbelievably sad. "I won't go into the whole backstory. We don't have time for that. Suffice it to say... People who go into mental health fields often have felt its effects on their personal lives in the past."  
  
"The Engine doesn't work on women," Waylon says, recalling the notes from one of the Mount Massive files. "Not the same way."  
  
"My sister was one of the people who helped them figure that out. At her expense, and without her permission, of course." Dr. Clark shrugs, nonchalant as she reconstructs the walls around her pain, keeping it safe and buried. "I could never prove anything, but I suspected. So when Murkoff came sniffing around Blue Garden, wanting to buy in to get access to more patients, I seized the opportunity, to the dismay of my partners. And I finally got access to the information about my sister, confirming my suspicions."  
  
"You sold your life's work to get revenge?" Waylon says incredulously.   
  
"Wouldn't you?" she answers. "After what they've done to you? Wouldn't you give _anything_?"  
  
Waylon shakes his head, not to disagree, but to clear it. "What was your plan, even? You could have just leaked the information, once you had it! Why are you here now?!"  
  
"This was all part of the plan, Mr. Park. Once I saw the footage of the Walrider incident, I decided to recreate it. In a more heavily monitored setting," she gestures at the security cameras then, a dark bulb in the far corner. "And with civilian witnesses. Something Murkoff wouldn't be able to cover up, like they've tried to do with Mount Massive. Murkoff was desperate, sending men in the middle of the night to clean up; local police have already been notified. They'll arrive to a building full of corpses, and hours of security tape showing what's been done here." She takes a deep breath. "I pushed you, all of you, while playing along with Murkoff, giving them the test results they wanted. I pushed you further into madness, to ensure a violent outcome. I pushed my own staff; so many of them have abandoned this place, seeing what I was trying to do. I was disappointed when it seemed like the patients were getting inexplicably better, less violent, but I persisted. I had Miles Upshur and his dormant Walrider, after all, it was only a matter of time."  
  
"You... knew about..." Waylon stammers.   
  
"If Murkoff knew we had a credible reporter under our roof, they'd have come and executed him. So we gave him the name of a missing man, presumed dead. It was unfortunate when the bastard turned up alive in the mountains the other day. And even more unfortunate what Murkoff found him carrying. It blew up too early."  
  
"You wanted us all to kill each other, like we did in the asylum," Eddie interrupts, growling. "We were less than _beasts_ in that place. You wanted that again."  
  
"You were already lost," she says, her eyes sad, sympathetic. Waylon thinks, for a moment, that it might be genuine. "A bunch of mentally insane murderers. Society makes no place in itself for people like you. At least you've been put to use." She holds up the drive again, her posture tight, controlled. The gun is steady in her other hand. "I'm giving you this in the hopes that you get out. But you will be caught again, eventually. I can only hope you manage to collapse Murkoff before you do, so they can't get you back in their cages again, invisible, to be chewed up in their Engines, or their Bells, or whatever else they've salvaged from Hitler's innovations in human suffering and death. Or elsewhere." She sighs heavily. "It's all the revenge that you and I can hope for. Though don't think it will be over at that, even then. If you think there weren't people tacitly approving of Murkoff's efforts behind the veil of government, you're naive. There will always be some new war, some new terror that can only be overcome with more terror. Governments and private armies surreptitiously buying up secret weapons and deliberately not asking what the cost was to perfect them."  
  
She holds out the drive again, deliberate and slow, and stands like she's made of stone. "If you put yourselves in the public eye, you can become unreachable by those people. It's the only way you'll be saved."  
  
Waylon shakes his head in denial, though he can't voice it. He knows what she says is true. From the look on her face, he's almost certain that he'll find everything she promised on the hard drive. He steps slowly forward, past Eddie's elbow as he tries to block him, reaches out, and accepts the drive.  
  
Dr. Clark smiles at him. It's different from her usual expressions. It's sincere, full of regret. "I know you won't forgive me, but I hope you'll understand. For everything I've done. And what I'm about to do. It was going to be either you or Miles, in the end; the public has little empathy for the mentally ill, but a sane man will be believable. Relatable. And since it's YOU... This story will be better received if it's _just_ you, you see." Then she takes a great step back, long legs carrying her out of range, and her thumb moves over the button on the remote to activate the shock on Eddie's ankle monitor, in the same moment that she raises the gun to fend him off should he try to stop her from using it.  
  
Waylon doesn't look back at Eddie. He doesn't think. He just moves, kicking forward. Maybe it's the nanotech, or maybe his reflexes have just been improved after being in Mount Massive.

Either way, it's still too late.  
  
He sees her finger clicking down hard on the button. There's a crackle. Her eyes widen when she sees that Waylon's not going to stop, and then her mouth sets in a hard line and her finger closes over the trigger of the gun.  
  
Click.  
  
The gun disintegrates, like the steel of the courtyard door had done when Waylon put his hand to it, broken down on a microscopic level and made unusable and unstable. The swarm of the Walrider explodes out of it, a puff of gray dust that curls gently in the air, before taking motion again, flowing down her arm, taking apart her sleeve and skin as it goes, the swarm darkening and thickening as it spreads over her body. Waylon skids to a stop only a foot from her as the remains of the gun and the remote fall from her hands, and she hooks the fingers of one hand in his jacket, squeezing. He doesn't push her off. He just watches.  
  
She stumbles as the swarm destabilizes the tendons in her legs, eyes meeting his again. They're still big and round, but now, unsurprised, accepting. She opens her mouth to speak, but the bugs have already eaten into her throat and voicebox, and only a gurgling sound emerges. Still, Waylon knows what she would have said.  
  
She knew she was going to die here. She had known from the beginning.  
  
She doesn't scream when they finally cover her and pull her body apart. She just looks at him.  
  
"Ding dong, the witch is dead," Miles says from somewhere behind him, and then he feels Eddie's arms catch him around the waist, pulling him back from the mess of human viscera that used to be Dr. Clark.  
  
Waylon gasps suddenly, like he'd been drowning. In a way, he had. He whirls toward Eddie, looks into his angry and concerned face, gripping his forearms. "She was gonna kill you. I thought she killed you."  
  
Eddie frowns more deeply, then lifts his knee. Waylon's eyes dart down, and to the left, and he sees the crumbled remains of the ankle monitor, dissolved apart by Miles' Walrider. "I got a shock for a moment but then that... _thing_ ," he looks pointedly at Miles, standing a few feet behind them. "Pulled it off of me."  
  
"You're welcome," Miles says, rolling his eyes. The hulking shape of Chris Walker emerges around the corner behind him, where they'd presumably been hiding.  
  
"Thank you," Waylon says emphatically, gripping Eddie's forearms tighter, then pulling him in and hugging him, muffling his voice in his chest. "Thank you."  
  
"Yeah, okay. So, how much of that was bullshit, you think?" Miles says. Waylon pulls away and looks at him properly, taking in his sweaty forehead, the ice in his hair, the soaked hems of his pant legs; the Walrider has abandoned the bloodstain that had been Dr. Clark and is now gently swirling around him. He's still carrying the laptop. "You really think she manufactured a violent massacre just to frame-up the story of the decade for us? Maybe that's a hard drive full of viruses or something."  
  
Eddie snorts. "I don't trust a syllable that came from that snake's mouth."  
  
Waylon looks at the drive, clenched in his fist, the other still gripping Eddie's sweater. "She... was a good liar. So it's hard to say either way. Whether she was lying then or lying now." He sighs, looking at the bloodstain. He doesn't say that he suspects it was always a little of both, with her. He doesn't feel sorry for her, exactly, but he can't help but empathize, if her story was true.   
  
He remembers the moments after he had woken up in the hospital room, the first time he had tried to escape Blue Garden. Her face as she talked excitedly about the medical applications of the nanotech. There had been a real doctor in there, a person who cared, once.  
  
He thinks he might have let her walk away, after all, if only she hadn't tried to murder Eddie.   
  
Waylon steels himself. "It doesn't matter. There are ways of mounting this disk without running anything that's on it, to see if there's any malicious software. It'll answer that for us. But we still need to get out of here first."  
  
A few other shapes emerge behind Chris, shaking and wide-eyed, hugging their shoulders. Waylon recognizes them, part of Dennis' crowd, survivors from the bloodbath earlier. And then... Dennis himself.  
  
Waylon's face cracks into a grin when he sees the man, looking significantly more threadbare, but alive. "Dennis!"  
  
Dennis turns his wild eyes toward him, flicking them briefly over Eddie and then back again. They linger on the blood on Waylon's arms and shirt, and Waylon shifts uncomfortably, smile fading as he realizes what a horror he must look like. Miles gestures at him. "Oh yeah. They had him up on the fifth floor in one of the testing rooms, strapped to a table. The other guys fled up the other stairwell; we ran straight into them when we went over to see how bad it was there. It looked grim, so we decided to follow what was left of your tracks over here. Though I think we took a different way down." He jams a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of where Waylon knows the second stairwell in this building sits. "I really hope there's a way out over here because between the endless flood of soldiers they're sending in and Frank's Walrider, there is no getting out on that side."  
  
Waylon shakes his head, dismayed, licking his dry lips. "They're looking for us on the first floor. We've got a straight shot to the parking garage if we can just avoid getting shot. Problem is, that's where most of Murkoff's people are accumulating."  
  
"Maybe we should go over the wall and take our chances," Miles says. "Wait out the storm."  
  
"We would almost certainly die," Chris interjects, stepping forward. "Murkoff would be able to easily track us, and we would not get far. If the cold didn't take us first." He rubs at the edge of the bandage on his face, where it's starting to peel away from his sweaty skin. "Trying for a car and the gate is a less certain death. Although still very likely."  
  
Eddie grimaces. "Charming."  
  
Waylon nods firmly. "Then that's what we need to do."  
  
There's a quick shuffle of bodies as Waylon hands off the remote to one of the other patients, instructing him on how to remove their ankle straps. Miles hands him the laptop computer while Waylon tucks the drive into his back pocket. Waylon realizes that between the laptop, the tablet, and the drive (if it contains what Dr. Clark claimed) they have more dirt on Murkoff than he'd ever dreamed possible. If they can't bring them down with it, then he's not sure what they can do.  
  
Ankle straps discarded in a pile, they creep into the stairwell. Chris is in the lead, taking charge of their movement, followed by Miles and his still swirling Walrider, then Eddie and Waylon pressed side by side, followed by the tightly clustered bodies of Dennis and the other patients.   
  
The silence around them saturates the building. On the second, and finally, first floors, they hear nothing. Chris nods them through after a careful listen at the door. Waylon looks around nervously on the first floor, looking for guards who aren't there. "Why did they stop looking so quickly? They knew we came through here."  
  
"They've regrouped," Chris answers without further explanation.   
  
They move to the exit, which leads out into a small open courtyard, the wall on one side, the buildings of Blue Garden on the other, and a long snowy stretch of open field leading off to the lights of Murkoff's military grade vehicles. It makes Waylon feel exposed, vulnerable. Miles looks back at him grimly, nodding. "See you on the other side."

They push out into the snow.


	44. Chapter 44

The blizzard has grown, the flakes of snow coming down in sheets, making the lights at the gate only a faded glow, the edges of the buildings indistinct, the shape of the parking garage impossible to discern. The wind is sharp and hungry and the snow has piled nearly to Waylon's knees. Men quickly lose their slippers in it, struggling forward in socks, or barefoot. It's only half a mile at most, but with the wind screaming in their ears and the digits on their limbs going red and then numb and blue, it feels like an eternity. Waylon tucks his hands into his armpits, zipping the laptop inside his jacket and hoping the snow and cold don't damage it. His side burns, and his ankle aches. Eddie struggles less, his height and long limbs making it easier to pick his way through the high snow, but Waylon can tell he's slightly off kilter, most likely from the electric shock that had nearly killed him, the muscles of his legs and arms tightening and releasing every so often. He keeps an arm tight around Waylon's shoulder. Waylon doesn't complain.  
  
It feels like forever, but it most be only minutes. The lights grow close, and Chris, farther ahead and as difficult to see in the light colored patient clothing, gestures to them to keep low. They creep through the snow until they encounter a low concrete wall, and pulling themselves over, find themselves on the first level of the empty parking complex.  
  
It's only slightly warmer out of the wind, and the men shiver and rub their arms. The lights here are dim, but still disconcerting; the shapes of the men are easier to pick out against the concrete as they pull themselves in from the snow, scattering and crouching along the low wall. Chris is already scouting ahead toward the stairwell that goes to the second floor. Waylon feels a spike of anxiety as he looks around the garage; he can see the far side, the stripe of dark white that leads into the snow again on the other side, and nearly the whole floor, barring whatever's behind the ramp leading upward. The space is wide and open, pillars scattered throughout to hold up the structure. He doesn't see vehicles.  
  
"There's no cars," Miles says, eyes narrowing in the bad light, picking up on the same thing he has. "Why aren't there cars? There are still nurses and doctors inside, they have to have cars-"  
  
"There's still another floor," Waylon says, trying to reassure himself just as much as everyone else.  
  
"Who parks on the second floor when there are still spaces on the first?" Miles answers, distressed. The cloud of the Walrider grows agitated, swirling more aggressively around him. "I'm going to see if there's any behind the ramp."  
  
"Wait-" Waylon starts, but Miles is already moving off along the wall, crouched low, trailing dark dust behind him.  
  
"He's right, Darling," Eddie says, curling his body more protectively around Waylon's. Out of the corner of his eye, Waylon can see the other men keeping their distance, eyes wide and staring at them. He feels a twitch of irritation.  
  
"If we don't find a car, we're not-"  
  
The quiet erupts.   
  
There's a strangled shout, and Waylon swivels his head toward Miles. The man is hanging in midair several yards away, like he's on a wire, thrashing his whole body and scraping at his arms and legs frantically, like he's on fire. The Walrider is a thick haze around him, its surface tumultuous, seething. As Waylon pushes himself away from the wall, he sees blood forming in pinpricks on Waylon's skin, like he's broken out in hives. Realization hits him, and he jerks his head around wildly, and then sees him.  
  
Frank Manera is making his way slowly toward them, still encased in the straitjacket and bite mask. He's soaked, head to toe, in blood, some still wet, some old and browning. There's snow in his stringy hair, and he's tracking wet prints from the entrance of the garage. The man's face is gray and wild eyed, and locks onto Waylon.  
  
He opens his dark, cavernous mouth, and from behind sharp teeth, he screams, "MEAT! I WILL DEVOUR YOU ALL, FLESH AND BONE!"  
  
Then Eddie's wedging his body between the cannibal and Waylon. In the distance, Waylon thinks he can hear the remaining soldiers out in the snow reacting, coming towards them. His eyes flick to Miles, still kicking his legs in the air, held aloft by the nanotech. The bugs around him are still writhing, and Waylon is reminded of blood cells, fighting the micro-organisms that invade the body. Frank's Walrider must have snuck around the outside of the building, or approached in such sparse increments as to be invisible to the naked eye. It's at war with Miles' Walrider, the tiny bugs ripping each other apart on a microscopic level, trying to keep their host intact.  
  
"He's trying to kill Miles," Waylon has to shout over the two men's screams. "If the host dies, we lose the Walrider!"  
  
There's a crashing sound behind them as Chris Walker erupts from the staircase, having heard the commotion from upstairs, and kicks his way across the concrete toward Frank, moving faster than Waylon would have thought him capable of. His fist collides with the cannibal's face, knocking him hard to the ground. His Walrider moves to defend him, dropping Miles to his knees on the hard floor, bloody and trembling. Frank's Walrider manifests between him and Chris, pulling into a humanoid shape as it collides with him, throwing him off his feet and to the floor several feet away, the air bursting from his lungs in a heavy grunt.  
  
The dark, roiling humanoid shape of the nanotech takes a step toward him, then pauses. It swivels its head toward Waylon, where he's peeking out from behind Eddie's bicep. Waylon's stomach lurches.  
  
The thing makes a sound, like wet metal grinding together. It does it again, and this time, Waylon is sure he hears, "Par-kk."  
  
"What the fuck-" he breathes.  
  
"Park," it says again, and now, Waylon feels a tingle of recognition. The shape of the Walrider solidifies, the nanotech pulling itself tighter together. Clearer, it says, "W-why the FUCK are you s-still ALIVE."  
  
"Jeremy Blaire," Waylon hisses. "God, what-"  
  
"You have n-no RIGHT, you WORTHLESS WORM," the now unmistakeable shape of Waylon's old boss grits out as it takes a shuddering step toward him, the nanites working laboriously to pull themselves into the tight lines of his suit, the shape of his legs moving without impact. "You ha-ve nothing to o-offer this world. I w-would have changed it FOREVER." Behind him, Frank writhes on the ground, struggling with his bindings, snapping his teeth behind his mask. His eyes roll white as he grunts and kicks his legs, language gone from him.  
  
Waylon bites his lip to control himself. He'd always been afraid of the man, even from the first time they'd met; attractive, self assured, dangerously ambitious and quick to anger. And with his voice emerging from this thing, the nano bugs working to bring themselves into the correct shape, it brings it all flooding back. The man trying to kill him, again and again. The man being lifted over him, before being shredded to pieces by a billion tiny machines.  
  
It must have copied his brain before it killed him, he realizes. Unlike Chris Walker, who was brought back as flesh, reassembled, Jeremy Blaire must only exist in the code of the second Walrider. Frank's not controlling it, in the same way that Miles isn't controlling his. However the two Walriders had been separated from each other, Frank's must have had gaps in its code, and filled them with what they'd read from Blaire. He wonders why it would have chosen Blaire. It must have mapped all of their brains. All of them, living as code, ghosts in the machine.  
  
"Jeremy Blaire is dead," Waylon bites out, glaring at the monster as it takes another step closer. "You're not him. You're old data."  
  
"No s-shit, Sherlock," the thing growls. "Doesn't mean I w-won't enjoy ripping all of you the fuck _apart_."  
  
It would take him moments. Waylon digs his fingers into Eddie's back, the laptop still clutched in the other.  
  
Miles stumbles into view, hand to his belly, skin and clothes still slick with his own blood. His Walrider pushes forward ahead of him, taking its own shape, a familiar ambiguous humanoid, positioning itself between them and Blaire.   
  
Then it starts to grow.  
  
Waylon feels the uncomfortable burning sensation in his hands which he now knows are the nanites crawling out of his skin. Eddie growls, and rubs at his arms, until Waylon catches his hand and stills him. Eddie gives him a strange look, but then his eyes roll back, and his body lurches and shudders as a massive amount of nanotech leaves his body. Waylon feels them move off of his skin like a wind. Eddie stumbles, pressing them both back against the wall, and shakily, they meet eyes. Then in tandem, they both look up.  
  
The other men shift uncomfortably as they experience the same, some trembling almost violently, as the bugs living in them flying out to join with the monster before them.   
  
The true Walrider, in all its glory, self replicating and rebuilding its network and hardware, stretching its tendrils into every living thing. An elder thing. _God of the mountain_.  
  
Waylon feels the thoughts come into his head, distinguishably foreign. He can't know if it was programmed, something the creature came to believe, after being deified and worshipped, given offerings of blood and flesh and brain, until the code became aware, and thought this must be the truth of itself. But it might as well be true. The Walrider stands over them at more than ten feet, hunching to avoid contact with the high parking garage ceiling, the air crackling with electrical current, darkening at the edges of the creature, like it's altering the air around itself even as they watch. It had continued replicating long after Mount Massive, squirreling its components away in their bodies. _Made manifest through the flesh of its followers._   
  
The Walrider that was also Jeremy Blaire looks up at it, turning its facsimile of a head upward, then takes a hesitant step back.  
  
There is a grinding sound, deeper and almost painful to hear, a sound beyond human voice. _The mountain god speaks._   
  
" ** _Waylon._** "  
  
There's a cracking sound and a flash of light, like lightning, as the Walrider descends on the shape of Blaire, a billion tiny machines clashing and sparking at once. They break their human shapes and whirl into the air, like swarming insects, or a miniature storm, shrieking, no longer capable of speech. Eddie stumbles back, pushing Waylon with him, still trying to shield him. Waylon shudders.  
  
Why would it speak to him?  
  
Across the parking lot, there's a thunder of footsteps, and soldiers in black emerge from the snow, at least ten of them, guns raised. They hesitate when they see the violent frothing of the warring Walriders in the air.   
  
The foreign voice whispers in Waylon's head, blurring his vision, muffling the sound around him. Fragments of code. A deep void through which it runs. The dark in the space between molecules. A massive things that exists only as a million tiny eyes. Its only purpose is to function.  
  
It reminds Waylon of the shapes he had seen inside of his eyes after they'd started putting him in the Engine. Maybe it had always been the Walrider, speaking to him in a language he couldn't yet understand.  
  
He looks down at the laptop in his hand. It wobbles and shimmers.  
  
Waylon goes to his knees while flipping the lid, settling it on his thighs. The desktop flickers into view, and then immediately blanks. The Walrider code begins to stream, more quickly than before, and Waylon quickly notices something's wrong. There are two sets of code, streaming by simultaneously, the lines interspersed, almost impossible to separate.  
  
Eddie hunches over him. "Darling, what on earth are you doing?! We have to run!" Near them, Miles collapses on his back. The patients flee, jumping the back into the snow, or running for the far side, scattering. Chris Walker staggers to his feet, chest heaving, and Frank Manera starts to spasm. The soldiers are still fixated on the nanotech mass, but their eyes start to drift toward the remaining men.   
  
If they manage to pick out the shape of Miles in the dim light, if they take their shot, Waylon knows it will all be over. The Walrider will lose its anchor, the core of its network, and will fall apart. Murkoff will win. He can tell the others realize it at the same moment he does.  
  
Waylon looks back at the screen, and it clicks.  
  
Almost calmly, he begins to type. He loses himself in the code. The longer he looks at it, the easier it is to discern one Walrider from the other. The easier it is to see where Blaire's data fills the gaps, keeping the original code from overwriting it. And the easier it is to construct the trap around it. It may have mapped his brain, it may have all of the basic information, but in the end, it's just not a _techie_.  
  
When he initiates the code he's written, and it begins to wipe Blaire's data from memory, he could swear the code starts _screaming_.  
  
Above him, he thinks he hears the mass shift. There's a distant rush of air as someone throws themself at the ground. Eddie's arms are tight around him. There are gun shots.   
  
The Walrider's intent unfolds on the screen. As Blaire is erased from the nanotech, the original's code slips in, overwriting the bugs one by one, absorbing them into itself. Waylon doesn't see it happen above him. He watches it happen on screen, fixated.  
  
When Waylon finally looks up again, the Walrider is gone. Chris is kneeling next to Miles as he shakes and grips his stomach, the nanotech retreating into him. Eddie is sitting next to Waylon, one arm still around him, looking between him and the screen, astonishment clear across his face. Dennis stands a good distance away, the only other one that hadn't fled.  
  
Frank Manera is still shaking on the pavement. Far across the lot, there's a mess of gore where the Walrider presumably took the soldiers out while the code was still at work. Through the snow, in the direction of the headlights, a horn is sounding where someone's body had collapsed against it.  
  
"It took all of them out," Miles says, voice thin and exhausted. "Man, Park, when you get into it, you get INTO it."  
  
Waylon clears his throat and blinks, closing the laptop slowly as sense returns. The screen is blank. The Walrider is finished, for now. "Sorry."  
  
Miles shakes his head. "You just saved our asses."  
  
"It's... what it intended," Waylon answers, swallowing hard. It chills him, knowing it's the only reason he's still alive. The only reason any of them are alive. Because they serve a purpose. He wonders what it means for them if their purpose is eventually served. When that will be.   
  
But it also warms him. The influence of the Walrider inside his mind was distinct. He knows now what he had let himself be sure of, but still only hoped. That most of his choices were his own. That his feelings were his own, and only that.  
  
Miles staggers to his feet, exhausted, followed by Chris. He limps toward Manera. Waylon tries to push himself up and fails, his ankle giving out, and then Eddie lifts him, bridal style. Waylon flushes, warmth rushing to his belly, and he has to scold himself internally. Eddie gives him a smirk, like he knows exactly what Waylon's thinking.   
  
Dennis keeps his distance as the four of them gather around the cannibal's body. The man is still alive, eyes rolling in his sockets, breath coming shallow and quick. His teeth are wet and red, blood pooling up from his throat and dripping from the corners of his mouth. His straggly hair is spread out across the concrete like a halo. He coughs wetly, manages a deep breath, and then his rolling eyes come to rest on them, darting face to face.   
  
Waylon thinks, perhaps, there's clarity in them. That the man knows who he is and where, for the first time in a long time.  
  
His eyes close. His last few breaths are slower as he works his jaw around the words.  
  
".....tha..nk.....you...."


	45. Chapter 45

As the cannibal dies on the concrete floor, Dennis inches closer. "Is he..."  
  
Miles nods. "Yeah. We're done."  
  
Dennis' eyes dart around the circle, at Chris Walker, at Eddie and Waylon, at Miles. Waylon wonders what he sees. A collection of monsters, maybe, in a tentative truce. With the world before them. There's nothing standing in the way of their escape.  
  
Outside the parking deck, there's a mechanical sound, the gate opening, and then the chugging of a motor pulling in. Everyone tenses and turns toward it, but it's alone, moving slowly. Then a van pulls out of the snow into the garage, tires crunching through the bones and viscera of the dead men. It stops just inside, and the driver's side door pops open. An indian man bundled in layers of winter clothes steps out, and it takes Waylon a moment to recognize him. Dr. Basu.  
  
"Hey!" Basu shouts. "Come on! I'm here to take you out!"  
  
Miles and Chris shift back nervously, but Waylon tugs on Eddie's arm. "We might be able to trust him. He tried to warn me, at the beginning."  
  
Hesitantly, the five of them move up to the van, Miles in the lead, Dennis trailing nervously, as Dr. Basu pulls it open. He's trusting, turning his back. He doesn't have a weapon. If he's up to something, taking him out would be easy. "I can drive you for a good distance but then I will have to leave you. I can provide any medical care you need in the mean time. I hope that's alright."  
  
Miles is nodding, bewildered. "Yeah, I mean. More than alright."  
  
The last leg of their escape is easy. Waylon had been picturing something different. Frantically hunting for keys in the snow, in pockets of dead men, where the dark shapes of the cars sit, lights still on. Maybe someone would attempt to hotwire. They would have had to try to avoid authorities with a military grade vehicle, all covered in blood and looking exactly like the escaped mad men they were. But that's in a different reality now. Dr. Basu closes them in the windowless van, and climbs into the front seat, turning to look back at them. "There is food and water back there, and extra clothing."  
  
"Why are you doing this?" Waylon can't help but ask.  
  
Dr. Basu hesitates. His face is a constant mask of concern, difficult to read, until Waylon realizes that's just what he's feeling. "In all truth, when I was forcibly removed from the hospital, I was asked by Dr. Clark to return at her direction and take Waylon Park or Miles Upshur to wherever they wanted to go, regardless of circumstances, and to abandon the rest. However, it turned out she was... pardon the colloquial term, _batshit crazy_. So I will take all of you as far as the state line, but then you will have to drive yourselves to wherever you need to go. I have a family, and I have to protect them."  
  
Waylon nods, looking around at the other men. "I think... we understand that."  
  
"Did Dr. Clark tell you all of her plans?" Miles asks cautiously as Dr. Basu shifts the van back into gear and backs out into the blizzard. He's already sweating and trembling, trying to avoid looking at the gore on the ground.   
  
"She told me half truths," he answers. "As I realized later. To get me to do what she wanted." He pauses for a long moment. "Is she dead?"  
  
Most of the others don't look particularly remorseful. Eddie's face is a blank, eyes watchful. Waylon swallows.  "Yes."  
  
Dr. Basu nods, keeping his eyes forward as the snow whips around them. "I hope she will find peace."  
  
Waylon doesn't know if he agrees with that, so he keeps his mouth shut.  
  
It's quiet in the van after that, as Dr. Basu carefully guides them past the gate and onto the forest roads. Waylon knows there must be others still alive, patients they're leaving behind, doctors and nurses hiding in closets and under desks. He still doesn't know why the parking deck was empty, and whether any of the people they've left will live. He thinks he should feel guilty. But he's too relieved. Too excited, with the laptop on his lap, the drive and the tablet in his pockets. All the evidence they'll ever need.   
  
There are two lines of seats along either side of the van, sitting them facing each other. Dennis is directly behind Dr. Basu, next to Chris, who is watching Basu and the road ahead keenly. Miles is beside him, just across from Waylon. They share a look, and then dig under their seats for the food and water. No one's actively bleeding out, and there is no way to clean the blood that's already collected on them, so they leave the medical supplies and the extra clothing untouched for the time being.  
  
After filling his belly with half of a homemade turkey sandwhich and most of a bottle of water, Waylon leans heavily against Eddie's solid form in the dark. Eddie is still making his way disdainfully through his sandwich; none of them have much appetite, the adrenaline still wearing off. Eddie hooks an arm around him, and Waylon can tell he wants to say something, but not even a whisper would be private in their enclosed space. So Waylon just presses tight to him, and lets the slow rhythm of the car rock him to sleep.

  
  
By dawn, when Waylon wakes up, they are miles from Blue Garden, and the storm has cleared. They are nearly to the southern border of Oregon, Dr. Basu tells them. He pulls into an empty camping rest stop just as the sun is coming up, allowing them time to use the small, little-used restrooms to clean up. Eddie carries Waylon from the car, since Waylon's ankle is now so swollen and painful he can barely put weight on it. While the other three head into the men's room, Eddie carries Waylon into the ladies' room, earning a weird look from Miles. Waylon just rolls his eyes and goes along without complaint.   
  
Eddie helps him wipe the blood from his skin with damp toilet paper, flushing away as much of the evidence as they can. They don't want anyone to know they've been here. The Walrider is no longer blocking their pain receptors, so Waylon's bullet wound and his back ache as well as his ankle, though they are already showing signs of accelerated healing. Eddie, likewise, seems to be aching all over, and at some point, caught a cold, sniffing occasionally.  
  
They change into the fresh clothes Basu brought them, civilian clothes purchased cheap from a Walmart, he would guess. Waylon gets a tshirt with the american flag on it, red sweat pants, and a plaid button up. Eddie's getup is similar, except for his black Harley Davidson shirt with a half naked woman straddling a motorcycle. Waylon smirks at it. Eddie grimaces. "Tasteless."  
  
Without the blood, in casual clothes, they look almost... normal. The scarring on Eddie's faced is still rough but only barely pink, almost white, the same as Waylon's. Their eyes are still red, and Waylon's starting to wonder if it's a permanent feature, but they could easily cover it with sunglasses if they need to.   
  
Now that it's just the two of them, Eddie looks more vulnerable, more agitated. He keeps glancing at Waylon, short looks that Waylon's not meant to notice. Waylon catches himself doing the same. Waylon worries, because they can't yet know what effects the Walrider will continue to have on them over time. It may eventually let them slip away from its influence completely. Eddie is alive because of the Walrider's effects, as is Miles and Chris, and Waylon wonders if they would still be, if the Walrider eventually decided it's done with them. And if Eddie did live, which version of himself would he be? Pre-Engine, the Groom, or the man Waylon loves?   
  
After an internal struggle, finally, he opens his mouth in the quiet, and tells Eddie as much. If they're really going to give this a try, he knows he needs to start with being honest.  
  
When Waylon finishes, Eddie is quiet for a long time, staring into the sink basin, folding and refolding a square of toilet paper.  
  
"I think these concepts are beyond me," he says at last, his voice softer than Waylon's ever heard it. "Self reflection isn't something I particularly enjoy."  
  
"When the Walrider spoke to me, it felt foreign. It was unmistakeable," Waylon says. "So I'm more sure than ever that my feelings are my own. It would stand to reason that... that you'd be the same. But..."  
  
Eddie nods slowly. "I think... it's lent me a clarity. I see my past actions more clearly, and how if I had gotten better, they would have always lead to you. Or... someone like you." He swallows hard, and Waylon tamps down the twinge of jealousy at the meaning, that it could have been any other man, if it hadn't been Waylon. "I don't know if that's the kind of thing that lasts or not."  
  
"Rerouted electrical pulses in the brain," Waylon says, morose. "A thing that relies on human madness to function would have to have some inborn sense of mental illness. How to manipulate it." It's probably not the kind of thing that lasts, he doesn't say. Eddie can tell what he means anyway.  
  
Eddie smiles, a half smile, sweet on his scarred face. "Such an intellectual." Then the smile falters.  
  
Waylon feels a rush of concern. "What is it?"  
  
Eddie tenses, gripping the rim of the sink. His knuckles are bruised, flecked with small abrasions. Without the dark, and the wash of blood over them, his skin is pale, circles dark under his eyes.   
  
"You can talk to me," Waylon says nervously. He thinks of Eddie's words, his reference to the fact that he could have fallen in love with someone else. Waylon wraps his arms tight around himself. "I... Eddie, if you... Now that we're out, if you... It's okay if you don't want to be with me-"  
  
"It's not that," Eddie says quickly. "It's not that. Never that."  
  
Waylon presses his lips tightly together, waiting.  
  
"I asked you to marry me," Eddie says, almost shameful. "You said yes. But I... I won't hold you to it. It was inappropriate to ask in that way, in that situation-"  
  
"I meant it."  
  
Eddies goes still. "You're certain? It would never be like your other marriage. No sharing. No... no children."  
  
Waylon thinks of Lisa and the boys. He thinks of her, trying so hard to please him. _I was never enough for you._  
  
"I always... I always secretly wanted a relationship like this. But I put aside my selfishness for others," Waylon says. "I... want to be selfish."  
  
He looks up at Eddie, willing all of his feeling into his expression, wishing that it could just pour over out of him and show Eddie the truth of what he feels, filling the room, drowning them. "I've _earned_ it, haven't I? After all this? Just... please, let me _have you_."  
  
Eddie melts. His face breaks wide, adoration and love in his bright blue eyes. He goes to his knees in front of him, hands on Waylon's hips. Waylon's heart flutters. "Oh Darling. Darling, of course. I would never deny you anything, most especially myself. If you want me, you will have me."  
  
Waylon smiles, wrapping his arms around Eddie's neck. "If... if what we have is only temporary, I want to enjoy it. The best I can."  
  
"It won't be," Eddie says with sudden conviction. "It can't be. You and I... we're _eternal_."  
  
They hold each other tightly in the tiny, dusty bathroom, bathing in the warmth of each other. Waylon clings tight around Eddie's strong neck, feeling his heart beat, breathing in the scent of him.

  
  
When they finally emerge, Waylon in Eddie's arms, Miles is standing nearby, wearing a denim jacket over a too-tight Adventure Time t shirt, gnawing on a length of beef jerky. He grins at Waylon, eyeing them up and down. "You two are so cute."  
  
Eddie scowls at him. Waylon just huffs.  
  
Chris is sitting on the back of the van while Dr. Basu carefully changes the bandages on his face. The wounds on his face are still ugly and raw, most of his nose missing and pieces of his lips, but they don't look infected, healing rapidly. After, Basu wraps Waylon's ankle and stitches and bandages the bullet wound in his side.   
  
They crowd back into the van after, clean and bandaged. Dr. Basu drives them for another hour, and then pulls into a gas station-motel complex and tells them it's the end of the line.  
  
"You can keep the van," he says, zipping his jacket and hoisting a small overnight bag onto his shoulder. "Someone will be picking me up. Get in touch with your contacts. Get that information out there." He pauses, looking back at them. "I wish you the best of luck."  
  
"Thank you," Waylon says.  
  
Miles jumps at the door and hops out. "I'm driving. I'm the only one who looks normal." No one argues.  
  
They drive for another four hours before they find another place that's safe to stop. The ride is silent as Waylon drifts in and out of sleep. They cross into Nevada, the tall evergreens being replaced slowly by Juniper and scrub bush, and are navigating an icy road between the mountains when Miles spots a pull in for hikers. It's unused in the winter and hidden between the hills, so they park and wander in various directions to get some air and piss.   
  
Waylon hobbles behind a low bush to pee, blushing when Eddie keeps watching him, smirking. "Should I still sing to you, Darling?"  
  
Waylon sighs heavily. "Don't tease me."  
  
Eddie smirks wider, humming a few bars of Sunshine. In the bright sun, reflecting white off the snow, their breaths clouding in the cold clean air, he's beautiful. Waylon grins back.  
  
When they approach the van, Eddie helping Waylon hop along on his bed leg, the other three are standing around the back. Dennis is shifting from foot to foot.  
  
"We need to make a plan," Miles says when they're all gathered. "I've just been driving south, putting some distance between us and them. I propose we keep going to Los Angeles. I know some people there, they'll be able to help us get the information out the appropriate sources. They've broken a lot of big stories, and they're good at protecting their sources. It's probably about seven or eight hours drive from here. I can get on the phone and let them know we're coming, if you guys agree."  
  
Waylon nods. "If I get access to some decent equipment it'll only take me a few hours to process the information on the devices."  
  
"I also agree," Chris answers in his slow, heavy voice. "I... had previously believed that it was best to bury the Morphogenic Engine and all evidence of it. To keep it from the outside world. But I understand now that Murkoff will not allow that to happen."  
  
Beside him, Eddie sighs heavily. Waylon looks up at him. "Eddie, I know you didn't want to go along with any of this. But... it's something I have to do. Is... is that okay?"  
  
Eddie gives him a mollifying look. "Darling, I go where you go. If this is what you need to do, it's what we'll do."  
  
"You two are seriously adorable, this is wild," Miles says, one hand on his cheek wistfully. Waylon shoots him a sour look.  
  
Behind him, Dennis clears his throat.  
  
"I ain't... I can't go with ya," he says slowly, wringing his hands in his shirt, eyes darting around at the other men like he expects them to jump them. "I... I got no part in this, right, you don't need me. I just... wanna see my sister again."  
  
Miles furrows his brow. "Y-yeah, of course. We get it." He looks around at Waylon and the others. "Right?"

Eddie scratches his ear and shrugs. "I don't care."

"It'd be... unwise, to split up," Chris says darkly. Dennis shrinks a little under the large man's gaze.  
  
Waylon shakes his head. "If he wants to go, he can go. He's right, he has no obligations to any of this. None of us do."  
  
Miles rubs at the thin growth of his beard again, looking sharply at Chris. "We don't have to agree on whether it's the right choice. We just have to agree that we don't have a choice in this. It's HIS choice."  
  
Chris tenses, crossing his arms. There's a long beat, and then he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Old instincts. Sorry."  
  
Miles puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out the papers Dennis had handed him in the cafeteria the previous day. He presses them back into Dennis' shaking hands. The man looks between Miles and Waylon gratefully. There is still fear there, but Waylon couldn't expect there not to be.  
  
They drop Dennis at a bus station at a casino in southern Nevada. Dr. Basu left them a large amount of cash, and they give him a good chunk of it, knowing he'll need it more than them. They're on their way to a potential safe haven, with resources at their disposal that Dennis won't have on his own.  
  
Waylon watches the man cross the parking lot after they drop him off and Miles shifts into gear and pulls from the curb. The man walks tightly, with a slight hunch, hand pressed to the pocket where he's carrying his money, looking around nervously. A deep country man, out of place.  
  
"Murkoff will find him," Chris says, following Waylon's gaze. Waylon doesn't answer, just watches Dennis until they turn out of sight. He never looks back.  
  
He knows Chris is right.

  
  
"It's interesting," Miles says from the front seat, as they pull back onto the road. "The Walrider let him go. Didn't even try to stop him. The dude's obviously still carrying some of its tech."  
  
They haven't talked in the car for the whole trip, but without Dennis, somehow, things feel... comfortable. No one left in the car is afraid of each other. Waylon turns from the window. "It must not have needed him for whatever else it wants to accomplish."  
  
Miles chuckles. "I think it's pretty clear what the Walrider wants. The same things we do."  
  
Waylon furrows his brow. "What? To destroy Murkoff? Why?"  
  
Miles shrugs. "I don't know. Revenge? Or maybe just... it's the only way to be sure it stays free."  
  
"What it chooses to do when it's _free_ may be worse than what Murkoff had planned," Chris says.  
  
"Well then you can kill me yourself if it comes to that," Miles says sourly. Interestingly, Chris flinches. Waylon looks between the two men, thinking about Chris' protectiveness, and what Miles told him in the office. It should seem preposterous, but somehow, it would make sense.   
  
"Maybe it just wants to be free for the same reasons we do," Waylon says, thinking of the cold vast consciousness that had touched his mind. It might believe it was a god, but it was made by the hands of men. "It could be more human than we realize."  
  
Miles eyes him in the rearview mirror. "I hope you're right."  
  
Miles makes the call to his contacts before they head into the mountains of southern California. They pull into a tiny gas station near a pass and Miles makes it from the pay phone. It reminds Waylon uncomfortably of the station he had stopped at when he'd first escaped Mount Massive.  
  
They're low on water, so after a little bit of a fight with Eddie (Waylon's the least conspicuous after Miles, and less likely to be noticed than Eddie or Chris), Waylon limps alone into the shop, grabbing the first pair of sunglasses he sees and throwing them on before collecting an armful of bottled water. The cashier is distracted by the television, barely looking up at him as Waylon counts the money.   
  
"Crazy," the woman murmurs, and then Waylon hears a familiar voice on the television. He looks up at the screen in the corner of the shop.  
  
"-utely not a hoax," Ethan says on screen; he's seated in a dark room across from a reporter, dressed neatly in a blazer and vest. He looks good, but tired. "Waylon Park was a trustworthy man, NOT the type of person who would produce that type of extremely disturbing video out of spite. Murkoff still cannot produce adequate evidence that it's a falsified video, that they did indeed fire him due to workplace complaints against him. The fact that Waylon and his entire family have vanished should be a huge red flag."  
  
The screen cuts to a brief montage of footage. Waylon's footage. Short, censored flashes of the men in the asylum, the blood, the Walrider. Ethan continues to talk over it. "Since going public with this video, my family and I have been threatened and bullied repeatedly by people who we believe to be connected to this company."  
  
The reporter asks, "You've mentioned in previous interviews that you anticipated it would endanger your family. So why release the video at all?"  
  
"Because it was right," Ethan says, as the camera pulls in close on his face. "And because I... I believe that my friend may have died to get that tape."  
  
Waylon starts slightly as Miles appears at his elbow, eyes wide. He jerks his chin at the screen, whispers so that the clerk can't hear. "My contacts just told me about this. We probably should have turned on the radio at some point."  
  
The clerk glances at them, pushing the plastic bag full of water toward them and dropping their change into Waylon's hand. Miles snatches the bag and pushes Waylon toward the door. Waylon goes, shellshocked.  
  
As Miles is ushering him out the door, Waylon hears a last snippet from the reporter. "Is it true that you once had an intimate relationship with Waylon Park?"  
  
Waylon has a flash of memory. Athletic legs. Holding his hand, the slur shouted from a car. The breakup. Ethan telling him, _I want a family, but... not with you._  
  
"I did, but that was..."  
  
Outside in the fresh air, with the evening setting over them, Waylon's skin feels clammy with sweat. The price tag is still dangling from the corner of his sunglasses. "People already knew... How long...?"  
  
"Two weeks ago," Miles says tightly, guiding him to the passenger side of the van, popping the door and pushing him in. Eddie and Chris look up at them from the back, relieved.  
  
"So long... But no one came to Blue Garden." Waylon looks into Mile's gray face as he slides into the driver's seat. "No one was looking for us. Why didn't they come?"  
  
Miles' eyes are shining as he throws the water under the seats and slams his door shut. "Because they think it's fake. Your buddy's been running the network circuit trying to convince people."  
  
Waylon's throat is tight with despair. Everyone's seen it. Everything he had seen, and lived, inside of that place. And they don't believe it. He doesn't know what he expected it to be like, when the truth was out. He visualized a series of headlines, of bad paparazzi photos of men who he had only seen on email chains walking out of courthouses in handcuffs. He couldn't have imagined this.  
  
As Miles kicks up the engine and shifts into gear, Waylon says, "But we have more evidence. It'll prove it, right? If they don't belie-" His throat closes, and he has to swallow hard. "...believe the videos, the rest of it-"  
  
Miles looks at him, eyes wide and human. He grips the wheel so tightly, the vinyl squeaks. "It's... It's difficult. The story is tainted. It'll be hard to change people's first impressions. But... But we'll try. The people I talked to are willing to try."  
  
Waylon glances behind him. Eddie's pleased expression has quickly shifted to concern. Chris looks grim, yet resolved. Eddie slides forward and hooks an arm around Waylon's chest as they pull back out onto the road.  
  
It's bewildering. His story had made it. But it didn't matter. It might have hurt them more than helped him. He focuses on breathing, and on Eddie's warm arm around him.

  
  
They finally pass into southern California. The mountains are high around them, green and brown and snowless this far south. It reminds Waylon of the hills around Mount Massive. The same tight, winding roads.   
  
Waylon watches the hills roll by as the sun sets ahead of them. When they finally turn south toward Los Angeles, there is only a pink glow, and the occasional speckle of stars through the light pollution. Miles turns up the radio, and they listen to skeptical reports about Waylon's video while they sit in shocked silence. Mostly, it's news about other things. There's no hint they're being pursued, at least, not publicly.  
  
They ditch the van and meet a woman with an SUV under an overpass, who greets Miles enthusiastically. She gives the rest of them a long look, her eyes widening, taking in their scars and deformities. Then they squeeze into the car, and she drives them to the safe house. It's a small two bedroom apartment rented under a false name, already prestocked, the windows covered with heavy shades. The woman tells them to get a few hours of sleep and they'll get to work on the devices early in the morning. Miles seems confident, and so Waylon tries to ignore the squirming in his belly.  
  
Miles sleeps on the foldout couch, Chris in one small bedroom, and Eddie and Waylon in the other. The rooms are sparsely decorated, but there are windows, and the beds are soft. Waylon cracks the window to let in the cool California breeze, along with the hum of electricity and late night traffic. Then he collapses in the queen sized bed next to Eddie, who wraps his arms around him, kisses him softly on the mouth, and hums quietly as they drift off to sleep.  
  
At least there could be this, Waylon thinks. If nothing else. If they fail to bring down Murkoff. If the public never believes them. At least, maybe they can keep hiding, run far enough so that Murkoff never finds them.  
  
They got out.  
  
This time, they'll stay out.


	46. Epilogue

Waylon writhes underneath him, his small, lean body flushed from his face nearly to his belly with arousal. Eddie is pinning him to the thin mattress by his shoulder, the other stroking the flesh of his throat, feeling his heartbeat up under his jaw. Eddie's cock is buried in Waylon's tight hole, pistoning slowly in and out of the slick, hot orifice. He's been fucking him for over an hour, staving off orgasm over and over, until their balls are both tight and dark red, and his hole is so soft and wet that it almost resembles a woman's.  
  
His Darling knows that it's Eddie's favorite way to fuck him. Waylon's favorite is fast and rough, when he's on the bottom, and Eddie doesn't deny the appeal, relishing how his husbands' sturdy body valiantly takes his cock with so little preparation. But the slow, filthy build to nearly painful arousal is so exquisite. Luxurious. It's something he never dreamed he could have. He marvels, every time, at the spread of Waylon's sweet, strong legs, the clutch of his velvet walls, the sound of his breathy moans.   
  
And now... And now...  
  
"Eddie, honey," Waylon gasps as Eddie runs his hand down his slick chest to pinch at his nipples. The dark silver wedding ring on his hand catches the light. "Honey, please..."  
  
Eddie smirks. His Darling is going to ask him to come. He only uses the nickname in bed, when he's desperate, because he knows what it does to him. His balls already feel like they're going to burst.  
  
"Just a little longer, Dearest," Eddie answers, slipping his hands out along Waylon's arms and lowering his body to press tight against him and stilling, putting off orgasm once more. He catches Waylon's hands in his as Waylon thrashes and howls under him, struggling for friction he won't get. Eddie knows it's okay. Waylon gave him permission. Eddie pulls Waylon's left hand to his lips and mouths at the matching ring on his finger, biting the metal with his teeth, slipping his tongue down into the sensitive web at the base of his finger. His cock twitches, and Waylon lets out an "Ah!" as he feels it, deep in his belly.  
  
"Just a little longer," Eddie says, pleading. "It's our honeymoon, Darling, please, keep me inside you just a little longer."  
  
His lover groans and it's Eddie's turn to feel the twitch of a cock against him. Waylon's cute little penis is pressed to Eddie's (slightly too soft) lower belly, a perfect pink mouthful. Eddie can't imagine what he had ever disliked about it, back in that shameful time, before his clever Darling saved him.  
  
Waylon blinks his eyes open in the dark, and Eddie catches the animal glint in them. Waylon told him it's an extra lens that their eyes grew after the Engine, the reason they can see in the dark. The blood never left their eyes, the veins in the whites swollen and bright red, and Eddie resists the urge to put his tongue in them, to lick at the place where they match, that proves they're the same species, meant to mate.  
  
"Eddie," his Darling says, leaning up to kiss at Eddie's cheek, mouthing over the old scars there. They've nearly faded, the effects of the mechanical monster living in their bodies working its dark magic. Waylon's face is similar, the dimpled bruising on his forehead and cheek almost smooth, barely catching the light. Eddie thinks he's beautiful; when he closes his eyes, or wears dark sunglasses, it's like he's camouflaged, the monster inside of him hidden completely, and it thrills him.  
  
The urge to come finally ebbs, and Eddie pushes up over him again, hiking his small thighs high and tugging him into his lap. Waylon wiggles excitedly, knowing that means it's finally time. Eddie slips his hands up and down those strong legs, thumbing at the delicate white silk and lace of the wedding garter he had made for him. Waylon had worn it under his dark suit, a secret for only the two of them. The ceremony had been small and brief, but knowing it was there, waiting for him, Eddie had been so eager that it had felt torturously long, rocking onto the balls of his feet, his eyes darting every so often to his Darling's thigh. His Waylon had looked handsome and radiant in his matching black tux, his bright, freshly bleached blonde hair a beacon, his dark eyes like black holes, deep, old stars that Eddie feels himself falling into, every time he looks at him.  
  
Eddie begins to rock their bodies, the pace gruelingly slow. The remnants of their wedding clothing are spread out on the bed and the floor, stained with semen and sweat. They're at a large house, deep in the country, which someone in Miles Upshur's contacts had rented for them. Another of his people, an ordained former soldier, performed the ceremony. It had to be secret; they're still in hiding, and will be for a long time, but they'll lose their support network very soon, and are about to go properly dark. So they married, while they still could, while it was still possible for them to do so. They married in Nevada, but their wedding certificates will say Mississippi, to throw off the Murkoff corporation.  
  
It's been two years since they escaped Blue Garden. Miles and Waylon had worked so hard since then. They were an amazing team, Eddie had to admit, with Waylon on tech, Miles on the public. But they were up against a corporation with a thousand people just as educated and experienced, and in the end, even with the Walrider on their side, they were buried. The public thinks it's a hoax. Blue Garden was spotless when the authorities arrived, delayed by the weather. Anyone who could say otherwise had vanished. Dr. Clark's plan had been a failure.  
  
They had put off what would happen next for as long as they could.  
  
Eddie feels Waylon start to tense and roll his hips, hunting for more friction, digging the head of his penis into that delicate, wonderful organ inside of him. "I wish it was your womb," Eddie says, because he does, and because Waylon likes to hear him say it.  
  
His Darling shudders hard, digging his nails into Eddie's forearm and thigh, and then his balls throb and the first jet of semen streaks up his belly. Eddie has to remind himself to keep rolling his hips; he's transfixed when Waylon comes, the surges of white sperm, the way his dick twitches. Eddie thinks about how he used to fear this, how he was told it was wrong, and it makes him snarl. Waylon's eyes are wide and he shoots another load between them, gasping.  
  
Eddie pushes in balls deep when he's ready, bending Waylon back, canting his hips up. "You'll be more likely to get pregnant like this," he says, voice shakier than he would like.  
  
"Yes, yes, knock me up," his sweet, dirty girl groans, and it's like he's been pushed from a cliff. Eddie tips into the waves of pleasure like a man happy to drown, happy to leave his body to decay in the sea. After edging so long, he comes for ages, and when he finally pulls out, he thumbs at Waylon's red, shiny hole, watching his own sperm dribble out.  
  
"Filthy," he says, and then he bends up and bites his husbands nipples until they puff up, licking at his come on his skin, as delicious as the rest of him.  
  
"God, I should have married you ages ago," Waylon groans, throwing his sweaty arm over his eyes, pulling his thighs together between them and twisting his body. Eddie knows he's flexing the walls of his hole, to feel how much of himself Eddie left there. "We've never gone that long before."  
  
Eddie grins. "Next time, it'll be even longer."  
  
"Next time, I'M on top," Waylon says with a smirk. Eddie huffs, but he doesn't argue. They tease each other, but they don't take turns; they just let whatever happens, happen. Sometimes they won't make the decision until the last possible moment. Eddie likes being able to decide. Waylon likes to be surprised.  
  
He pushes a pillow under Waylon's hips before he slides off of him, keeping them canted up and keeping his ass full. It's what he did the first time they'd had sex that night, and he hopes Waylon will stay still for him again, so he can push his cock in again in an hour or so and feel the wet surge of his own seed, still inside him. He rubs his hands over his Darling's belly, feeling the slight swell of it there, imagining it's from his come inside of him.  
  
"I don't know if I can take a third, honestly," Waylon groans. Eddie knows that means he'll try.  
  
"It's your choice, Darling," Eddie sighs, flopping into the soft pillows beside him. The bed is wide, the biggest Eddie has ever slept in. The room is cozy, with tall windows that look out over a dark lake, surrounded by snowcapped trees. It's beautiful. He almost wishes he were deflowering Waylon here. That their first time could have been so picturesque and lovely. Untainted. He supposes their real first time suits them more.  
  
His Darling is quiet for longer than Eddie is comfortable with, and so he shifts over him, kissing his cheek. He can see Waylon's face is deep in thought. "Is everything okay?"  
  
Waylon's expression breaks, guilty for a moment, then quickly to feigned nonchalance, then again to concern. He knows his Darling still has to remind himself to be honest with him. He knows it's only because he doesn't want to trouble him.  
  
He trusts Waylon completely.  
  
"I'm just... Sorry, I know we agreed not to think about it tonight."  
  
"It's understandable," Eddie says. "You worked so hard. I know it was a difficult choice to make."  
  
"I just..." He takes a shaky breath. "I feel guilty. Because it wasn't really that difficult. We're supposed to be the good guys, sort of. But I... I find myself... looking forward to it."  
  
Two weeks earlier, Murkoff had sent people to kill them. Ten men had come through the door of their third safe house, put a bullet between Miles' eyes, and then attempted to shoot the rest of them. Miles had gone down... and then stood up, the bullet lodged against the reinforced structure of his skull, bone thick with nanotech. The Walrider had killed six of them. Chris killed two more, crushing their heads to jelly in his massive hands. One had cowered on the floor pissing himself as Waylon straddled the last one and sank his hands into his guts, pulling them out in slippery chunks as Eddie pinned the man's hands to the floor and watched.  
  
Eddie had been hard by the end of it. He thinks he might reconsider his stance on sharing, if the third person ends up dead.  
  
The remaining man had given up his employers before the Walrider finally killed him, not that they needed the confirmation that it was Murkoff. After, Waylon stayed up all night adjusting the Walrider's code to teach it how to clean up blood. There had been no trace left of Murkoff's killers. Then Eddie had let Waylon fuck him, thinking of his lover's hands digging red and shining into a man's flesh as he struggled.   
  
It laid out the truth for all of them. Walker had known, and Eddie had suspected, but Waylon and Miles had denied and fought it for as long as they could. The truth was that they were what Murkoff had made them. What the Walrider had made them.   
  
Weapons.  
  
Miles' journalist friends still don't know about it. They don't know it was the last straw.  
  
The next morning, the four of them will pack all of their borrowed equipment into a rented car, and they'll head to a new safe house, leaving Miles' journalist network behind. The car and the house are Waylon's doing; he hacked into the rental database to secure a car with no strings attached, and he had rented the cabin for them in a similar fashion. They'll stay out of sight, working over the phone or email, moving at night on back roads. They'll move again shortly after to a different car and different house, and then again. Eddie had listened to Waylon explain the technical details of it, but it's simply not his area. In the past two years, Waylon had accrued multiple new skill sets which would lend themselves well to their new mission.  
  
If things go to plan, by the time Miles' contacts realize the four of them are gone, six Murkoff employees will already be dead. Waylon has the list, proven authentic, and they selected the order they would kill them in with care. They know once they start, the rest will start to panic and hide.   
  
They don't mind. They intend to hunt them for the rest of their lives, if they have to. Because they refuse to be the hunted, anymore.  
  
"My fingers are tingling the more I think about it," Waylon says, breaking Eddie out of his brief reverie. "I think the Walrider enjoys killing them as much as... As much as I do."  
  
Eddie grins. "Don't feel guilty, dear. You are what you are. You shouldn't feel guilty for doing what is only your nature."  
  
Waylon scoffs, raising Eddie's hackles. "This all started because I was trying to be a good person. Because I was trying to do right. I don't know how it got twisted this much."  
  
"They're bad people."  
  
"So are we," Waylon says. "But maybe that's what it's going to take to bring them down."  
  
Eddie fingers at Waylon's hip, a soft curve. He knows his Darling is a much kinder man than he. Eddie feels no guilt, no empathy. He's a psychopath, through and through. But he makes the effort for his Darling. Sometimes he feels the Walrider helping him, making slight rewires in his brain to help him understand. Empathize. He suspects the Walrider has had much more influence on him than it has on Waylon, but he doesn't particularly care. He's never been interested in regret.   
  
"I just... What if we go after someone in their house and their wife or husband comes home at the wrong moment? Or their _kids_?" Waylon gulps, the line of his throat convulsing. "What if I flinch? This is different from self defense. It's _murder_."  
  
Eddie runs his fingers up Waylon's side, earning a shiver. His penis is getting hard again, already. They had agreed not to talk about the plan, but it had been mostly from Waylon's side. Eddie likes to hear his Darling talk about killing. Especially about killing the fucks who put them all through hell, mangled their bodies and their minds, and then tried to make them disappear. Eddie is giddy with anticipation about it. He tries to hide it from Waylon, though, because he knows how it bothers his dear husband.  
  
"That's why I'll be there. You may shy, at first, but I won't." Eddie breathes in the sex scent of his husband's body. "It will get easier. I promise."  
  
Waylon shudders. Eddie knows his Darling isn't aroused by killing. But he is aroused by Eddie talking about killing. Waylon loves that Eddie is a killer, that he's dangerous. He loves when Eddie holds him down and puts his hands around his throat, when he can feel the strength of him, the threat of violence that he could do to him, and chooses not to.  
  
Their arousal is a loop, and soon Waylon's pink little cock is hardening against his hip, spurring Eddie's own penis into hardness as well. He crawls up over his lover, kissing and fondling him, until he gets that nod of permission, and sinks his still swelling cock into his sopping wet hole.  
  
The list has nearly sixty names on it. Dr. Clark had given them the topmost executives and shareholders, plus underlings who participated directly in the development of the Morphogenic Engine. They'll be working for years, if they live that long. But Eddie thinks that the Walrider will assure that they live that long.  
  
Eddie has had mixed feelings about the nanotech beast that has been using their bodies as vessels. He doesn't like being used. He doesn't like having another thing in his head, whispering. But he likes that it protects his Darling, and he likes the power it gives him. And it likes how it helps him see. Not just the night vision. But rather, the layers of people.   
  
He looks at Mile Upshur and he sees the Walrider, a great looming shadow always hunching over him, even when it's tucked away in the cavities of his body. And he sees Miles himself, well meaning, but his monster leaking out around the edges, small and quick with sharp claws and teeth, and bright, inhuman eyes. Miles has long gotten over being dead. He loves the Walrider, almost as much as he loves Chris Walker.  
  
He looks at Chris Walker and sees a beaten down soldier, but around his edges, a tank, a behemoth, a savage titan that would rip apart anything in its path. He used to have soft, sad eyes. He and Miles had gotten together, nearly a year earlier, after a senselessly long courtship, and now the monster looks out through his eyes, always wary and watching, eager to come out and protect what belongs to him.   
  
Then there is his Darling.  
  
When he looks at his Darling, he sees his Bride. Ethereal and clad in white lace, her face veiled even as Eddie ruts into her wet cunt. Her nails are painted a dark amethyst to hide the old blood that collects under them. She is everything he had dreamed, everything he had been told to want. Her belly swells with his children, her breasts are tender-nippled and swollen. The head of her penis rubs against the underside of the curve of their future children.  
  
He also sees his Groom, the dark eyed boy from his wedding, in his dark suit, sharp-eyed and sharp toothed, his hands made of forged glowing silver. His Groom is clever and hungry. Eddie was the Groom in Mount Massive, but now his Waylon is too. His own monster bends and kisses him, his perfect match, his perfect mate.  
  
He sees his wife and his husband, two shapes glittering around the soft edges of his Darling Waylon. His Darling still resists, at times, the beasts growing within him. But then there are times like this, with Eddie buried fire-hot and hard as steel in his hole, pushing more of his seed into his body. Times like this, where Waylon lets himself _be_.  
  
Waylon is the Bride and the Groom, his wife and his husband. He is bloody nailed and clever, gentle and vicious. The garter gleams on his thigh. Eddie bites at it as he comes.  
  
Yes, Eddie likes how the Walrider helps him see. He might never have known this, if the beast didn't let him see.  
  
He is still too proud, though, to ask the beast for anything. If the thing thinks of itself as an old god, Eddie often wonders if it would respond to prayer. He thinks, maybe after they're done with Murkoff, and they can vanish properly, he might pray to it.  
  
He wonders, if he prays hard enough to the god that lives within them, if it will let him plant a seed in Waylon after all, and give him the family they both deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! Thank you everyone for reading, and for all your kind comments! Please feel free to leave any criticisms as well; I'm not sure if/when I'll write more fic, but I'd love to learn even more from this experience and improve next time :)


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